


When The Line Connects

by Hark_bananas, need_more_meta



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bucky Barnes in Wakanda, Comedy, Everyone is a good bro, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Nomad Steve Rogers, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, T’Challa is a good bro, Wanda Maximoff is a Good Bro, a severe case of not-my-boyfriend delusion, authentic Russian swearing, chaotic gay pining, everyone is happy and it only hurts a little bit, fannish practices as love language, flagrant abuse of ebay, flangst, idiots to boyfriends, one overprotective goat, some inappropriate activities with Captain America figurines, supersoldiers vs internet slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas/pseuds/Hark_bananas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/need_more_meta/pseuds/need_more_meta
Summary: It's a fluff pie with fluff stuffing drenched in fluff sauce and sprinkled with fluff. Low on action, high on conversation. May contain traces of humor.Steve is covertly superheroing with his team in some Eastern European woods when he receives The News: a certain someone is out of cryosleep (spoiler: it's Bucky). It takes a bit of persuasion (some telekinesis is involved, some threats are made), but Steve agrees to wait until the end of the current mission before rushing off to shower the certain someone (who isn't his boyfriend, shut up, Sam) with a century's worth of unrequited affection. Unfortunately, a series of mishaps leaves him stuck in the woods rather indefinitely. While Steve is occupied with facing his long-repressed feelings and trying to refrain from banging his head against every tree in the vicinity, Bucky is left to his own internet-connected devices. Also, goats. And eBay.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, background Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 260
Kudos: 267
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. He's Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Meta: This was supposed to be a short cracky 2.5k-ish one-shot. And then I accidentally wrote a 30k prequel to it. And a 10k sequel. Oops.
> 
> I am eternally grateful to the NASBB mods for putting together this event, which encouraged me to put my writing out in the world and through which I met so many amazing people. Special thanks goes to my absolutely amazeballs beta and dear friend [Nospheratt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nospheratt), whose cheerleading and love and keysmashes have been invaluable in making me feel like I’m actually a writer, and maybe even an okay one. This fic wouldn’t be here without my other fantastic beta, [babydollbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydollbucky), who dutifully shaped my non-native speaker writing into proper English.  
> One more special thanks goes to my dear friend M., whose help with the first few chapters made me a better writer in just a few well-put comments.  
> This fic is a lot of firsts for me: first fic longer than 6k words, first multi-chapter fic, first shot at comedy, first fandom event, first time having someone cheerlead me through the process, and first time having someone make art to go with my words. It was a pleasure and a privilege to work with [Hark_bananas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas), my magnificent artist for this bang.
> 
> Updates will be posted on Tue/Thu/Sat until the end of posting on Nov. 28.
> 
> This fic came into my life completely unannounced and almost instantly turned into my personal little happy place. I have no idea how this happened, but I hope it’ll bring you at least a fraction of the joy it has brought me. <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> Kit: I'm so glad I got the opportunity to pick Meta's fic up as a pinch hitter because it's so good and so funny and so lovely and warmb. It’s been a joy to work with.
> 
> Huge thanks to Meta for being such a fantastic collaboration partner, and thank you so much to the NASBB mods for putting this event on. Not only has it been a lot of fun, but it has introduced me to a lot of really amazing people, and I’m eternally grateful.

**Part I. Absence Makes The Heart Grow Like Whoa**

The tree outlines are just beginning to stand out against the paling sky, when Sam comes to relieve Steve of his watch.

“I’m not really tired,” Steve lies, as usual.

Sam shoos him away, as usual.

They’ve had this talk many times over the last few months. It always ends the same. Yes, Sam, sure, Sam, big strong supersoldiers are still goddamn humans, humans need rest, yadda yadda, okay, got it, see, Steve’s already leaving, sheesh. If this time Steve makes his exit without the customary five-minute banter session, Sam probably chalks it up to the cumulative persuasiveness of all his previous mental health and safety briefings. In any case, he settles into his vantage spot in a nearby tree with a satisfied look on his face, content to see Steve come to his senses at long last.

Truth is, the past several days of going over the same plan 24/7 have left Steve’s brain fried enough to actually crave sleep, but Sam doesn’t need to know about that. No one does, although Steve suspects that Nat suspects. Or maybe that’s just her resting I've-got-your-number face. Steve once heard Sam describe it that way and still cannot agree more.

He moves through the forest, his feet sinking into the soft clumps of mud and leaves. The air around him is heavy with mist, and he has to squint against the smoky pre-dawn haze that throws everything out of focus. It’s almost like his eyes don’t work properly again. Tiredness presses onto his shoulders as he wades through a blur of silver and dark green. Just a few more steps, and he can lie down, and maybe the world can hold it together and not collapse for a few hours. That’d be nice.

A sharp sound sends his frayed nerves on high alert, freezing him on the spot. Images flash through his mind: a gunshot, an explosion, a monster army from outer space, the fabric of reality being ripped by some careless science or sorcery or a combination of the two. He shifts his weight, getting ready to dash toward danger, when he hears another, much softer crunch from right below him. Something rolls under his boot. Slowly, Steve looks down.

Yep, he’s just stepped on a twig and nearly given himself a heart attack.

So many things have been happening lately that no one needs to know about.

Steve covers the remaining distance to his tent in swift, purposeful strides, reminding himself that he’s got no reason to worry. The plan’s solid. His team’s more than competent. He’s thought of everything he could, checked all the possible boxes, covered all goddamn bases.

Why, then, does he still feel like there’s something flickering just at the edge of his vision, so close and yet forever slipping beyond his grasp.

Blinking the specter away, he dives into his tent and balls his jacket up into a pillow. Not the best, not the worst. Feels good enough when he drops his head on it and closes his eyes.

He’s almost drifted into comfortable blackness, when his phone pings, a high-pitched trill that he doesn’t recognize at first. Why would anyone send him a text message. There are only so many people who even know this number. First, his team of righteous fugitives, who are all present and accounted for, tucked into their respective tents in the depths of the Romanian woods, plus Sam on watch. Then, of course, Tony. But even if Tony decided to contact him (which Steve doubts, though one can always hope), he’d call, not send a text message. It wouldn’t be one message either. That man needs at least fifty words just to say hello.

Maybe Steve can deal with this later. Please let him deal with this later. Whoever he’s forgetting about can stay forgotten for a bit longer. The early morning is so warm and the jacket-pillow is so nice. Maybe it’s Sam pulling one of his bizarre pranks on him.

Except that Sam is surely a menace, but not one to stand in the way of someone’s well-earned sleep. Self-care first, mischief second, that’s the golden rule of Sam Wilson, which is why neither Steve, nor anyone else on the team, has strangled him to death yet.

Okay, damn. Steve grunts testily as he fishes his phone out of his uniform pocket. He brings the screen to his face and cracks an eye open.

When he sees the sender’s ID, he jerks bolt upright on his sleeping bag. How could he not think about this one. Damn his superhuman repression skills.

By the time he finishes reading the message, he’s up on his feet and out of his tent.

“What’s up, man?” Sam calls from his post.

Steve strides past him and pokes his head into Nat’s tent. She’s asleep, and he’d feel guilty about waking her up, but he’s too busy feeling too many other things.

“Nat,” he calls, and she snaps awake, one hand flying up into a defensive position, the other gripping something under her sleeping bag. “I’m out. You’re in charge.”

She blinks.

He’s already running away.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Sam’s voice sounds closer, the apprehensive edge in it hitting Steve’s back and bouncing right off.

Steve has one leg up in the jet when he realizes they only have one jet. Well. Damn. Maybe Sam could just fly the others out one by one. Yeah, that could work.

“Steve,” Nat says from behind him, crisp and tense.

Taking two begrudging steps down the jet ramp to face her, he notices Wanda stumbling towards them with her jacket thrown over her shoulders. “What’s going on?” she asks, coming to a stop next to Nat. Her last word is lost in a massive yawn.

Sam walks up as well. His eyebrows are tied into a very incredulous knot on his face.

They are all looking at Steve like he’s grown a second head or turned blue or signed a paper that would let him relinquish all responsibility for his actions. So, he tells them, just a little bit irritated at having to waste precious seconds on explanations:

“He’s awake.”

Sam and Wanda exchange baffled glances. Nat’s shoulders relax, and she throws her head back, as her lips curve into a knowing smile. Yeah, Nat, you get him. Now get off his back.

“Who’s awake?” Wanda asks groggily. She doesn’t look very awake herself.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve and Nat answer in unison.

Why is Sam rubbing his face like he’s trying very hard not to kill Steve. It’s good news. It’s the greatest news in the entire history of news. It’s like finding out Bucky’s alive again, but without all the government-collapsing, Hydra-resurfacing, mass-murder-plotting shitfest.

What kind of problem can Sam possibly have with that.

“Listen, Cap,” Sam says, hands clasped before his chest, as if praying for Steve’s attention, “if you’re gonna lose your shit and drop everything every time your boyfriend exhibits normal human behavior, we’re gonna need a serious talk about boundaries, you hear me, man?”

“What?” There are so many things wrong with what Sam’s saying. For starters, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Sam stares. Nat snorts. Wanda is trying to get her right arm into her jacket sleeve, while glancing between the three of them and fighting off another devastating yawn. She misses five times in a row before she realizes it’s the wrong sleeve. As preoccupied as he is with the need to get to Bucky immediately, Steve spares a moment to feel a little bit sorry for her. Wanda’s been putting up an admirably brave front all through their outlaw escapades after the Raft, but she’s obviously in dire need of a vacation.

“Which one’s Bucky?” she asks when she regains control over her jaw.

Oh come on, Wanda. Pay some goddamn attention.

Yeah, sure, she’s only met him once, briefly, and in a pretty messed-up context, but that should’ve been more than enough. Bucky is _unforgettable_.

While Steve, still halfway into the jet, is busy being scandalized, Nat snickers and cocks her head at Wanda. “How many boyfriends do you think Steve has?” she asks, clearly having way more fun than the situation warrants. Wanda succeeds in getting her arms into her jacket and squints at Steve, like she’s seriously considering the question.

Steve doesn’t have time for this. Whatever this even is.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” he says sternly. “And he’s awake.”

“Do you even hear yourself, man?” Sam groans, burying his face in his palms again.

Meanwhile, Nat does some robot moves with her left arm for Wanda, which is probably supposed to jog Wanda’s memory. That’s really not the main thing about Bucky, but whatever. With all due respect, it’s not like Nat could mime the heart-stopping sharpness of Bucky’s eyes or the world-spinning brilliance of his smirk.

“Ah!” Wanda exclaims, as Nat shakes her hair into her face and adds a menacing scowl to her pantomime. “He’s the one that turns Steve into a teenager, right?”

That’s… one way to say it. And not the main thing about Bucky either.

Although it’s pretty close.

“I gotta go,” Steve reminds his company, who are all sniggering like idiots for some reason. The metal clangs under his boots as he strides further across the ramp. Idiots or not, they’re all trained experts in survival, they’ll figure something out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sam flail emphatically at Wanda, who shrugs and twirls her wrist. The next second, red light shoots toward Steve, circles around his waist, pulls him away from the jet, and leaves him hovering a few inches above the ground. Great, a mutiny. Looks like he has to fight his own team now. For Bucky. So déja vu.

“Put me down,” he snarls, completely unamused.

Wanda glances at Nat, who shakes her head. How does Wanda know he left Nat in charge. Why did he leave Nat in charge. Wait. Was Nat always secretly in charge?!

“Okay, Rogers,” Sam says, very carefully, inching towards him, hands stretched forward with palms open flat. “I need you to take a deep breath with me, alright, man?” He starts sucking in air with the vehemence of an industrial vacuum cleaner.

This is ridiculous.

Nat is shaking her head so hard it must be dizzying, and her left hand is clasped over her mouth. As far as Steve has learned, this is Nat’s equivalent of rolling on the floor laughing her guts out. What the heck is so funny, Nat. He makes his most damning eyebrow-raise at her.

“Steve,” she says over her fingers, “they don’t know. You kinda never told them.”

Oh.

Right.

Well, this is awkward.

True, he’s barely mentioned anything that happened after he and Bucky fled the airport battle in Leipzig. First of all, he didn’t want to risk anyone accidentally spilling the location of the most wanted guy on the planet. Also, he may have despised the idea of sharing Bucky with anyone else more than strictly necessary, but that particular point is totally irrelevant. His decision-making has never been based on his feverish wish to keep Bucky safe, away from everyone, and all to himself. It just happened to be the most reasonable thing to do. Objectively.

Sam has stopped impersonating heavy machinery and switched to glaring holes in Steve.

“What have you kinda never told us?” he asks, voice low, hands on his hips, elbows jutting in disapproval.

Where should Steve even start.

Nat comes to his rescue because she’s a saint. “Barnes has been in cryo since the whole fiasco with Tony,” she reveals, dropping her hand from her lips to flourish it at Steve in a ‘hence, this’ gesture. Steve points both his index fingers at her, urging the rest of his team to listen. Why can’t Nat always talk for him. She’s so much better at talking. Or anything, really.

“Okay,” Sam says, redirecting the daggers streaming from his eyes toward Nat. “Why?”

“So they could get all that nasty Hydra stuff out of his brain,” Nat explains, like she’s the goddess of patience and verbal communication, and Steve ought to build her a temple.

“You mean the stuff where he tried to kill every one of us?” Sam grumbles, crossing his arms on his chest. “That wasn’t just his bad attitude?”

Steve growls, his first contribution to the discussion. Talking truly isn’t his strong suit.

“He tried to kill you?” Wanda asks. Her face has gone beyond confused and into the god-honest what-the-fuck territory.

“Oh, right, you’ve only met him when he was on our side,” Sam says with exaggerated cheerfulness, then reverts back to grumbling. “That one and only time.”

Yeah, Sam, holding grudges is surely a sign of good mental hygiene, way to go, buddy. Why don’t you try taking a deep fucking breath.

Dangling above ground isn’t improving Steve’s mood in the slightest. He tries to kick out of Wanda’s telekinetic grip, but his serum is no match for the Mind Stone juice. Maybe an even match, which still leaves him in a very inconvenient stalemate. Sighing, Steve puts his elbows on one of the not quite visible yet pretty palpable light-energy-rays and watches as Sam’s face stirs and ripples with thought process.

“Okay,” Sam relents finally. ”And where’s Cap’s not-so-sleeping beauty now?”

“Wakanda,” Steve blurts out, eager to get this extremely unnecessary interrogation over with. He’s got somewhere to be, how can none of them see it.

Sam’s head snaps up and he stares at Steve, the fading daggers in his eyes replaced promptly with a whole-ass rocket launcher.

“You left Barnes with that crazy cat dude?” Sam rumbles, taking a step towards Steve. “Come on, man, last time I saw them, the dude was trying to claw the living shit outta him, for fuck’s sake!”

Whoa, Sam, for someone who keeps saying he hates the man, you surely care too much.

“They, uh, they made up,” Steve explains to the best of his ability. Which is, admittedly, not very good.

Sam does that thing with his face where one of his eyes doubles in size in bewilderment, while the other one shrinks into a mistrustful slit. The result is both scary and worrisome.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Sam’s voice is starting to sound dangerously close to a screech. “The dude was out for blood! I still got claw marks! On my fucking shins!” He gestures at the body part in question, although it looks more like a general sweep at the infinite multitude of Steve’s faults. “So what, Cap, we sleeping with the enemy now? What if it’s a damn trap? You thought about that, huh?”

“Um,” Steve replies gracefully. This is so far from what he should be doing right now. He lets out a long frustrated breath and finds himself sagging a bit in Wanda’s light-tentacles. Which shouldn’t be possible, not with how tightly they were wound around his waist. Taking care not to let his face show anything, he squirms a little, and the red light gives. Huh. He steals a quick glance at Wanda, who appears to be more focused on adjusting the rings on her free hand than keeping up the spell. She must’ve given up on this entire conversation. Smart choice. Steve’d be happy to do the same and get the hell out of here already. There’s just this tiny goddamn problem. Namely, his surprisingly obtuse teammates.

Bucky is awake, and Steve should have been there when it happened, so he’s already running dreadfully, unforgivably late. If his team, his friends, the people he’s put his faith in, find that so hard to understand, oh well, he’ll just have to leave them to it.

Before he can test how much leverage his body can gain now that Wanda’s grip has slackened, he hears a whirr, then a whoosh, and then the air in front of him is full of Sam.

“Care to fucking elaborate, man?” Sam fumes at him, wings spread wide as he hovers exactly in Steve’s eyeline.

“Um,” Steve reiterates. Granted, keeping Sam in the dark probably wasn’t his best idea.

But that’s what Sam has been saying about every single Bucky-related idea Steve has had ever since their first encounter with the Winter Soldier, and look at how wrong he was every damn time.

“Gee, Sam, get down,” Nat intervenes, God bless her. She walks up to stand on the ground between them. “You know how Steve gets when Barnes is involved.”

“Which is exactly why he should’ve fucking talked to us first,” Sam grits out, his nostrils flaring just a few inches away from Steve’s nose. Steve meets his eyes with what he hopes comes off as hardened stoicism, while he’s trying to wriggle his hips out of the red light as surreptitiously as possible.

“At least he didn’t start another war,” Nat shrugs dismissively. “And it’s okay, really. T’Challa is a good bro.”

“Which one’s T’Challa?” Wanda lifts her head towards the commotion with renewed curiosity. Her fingers flex, and the invisible grip around Steve tightens, stopping his escape attempt mid-squirm. Thanks a lot, Wanda. The one time it was okay to get distracted, and you ruined it.

“Oh, just the King of the country that pushed for those freaking Accords!” Sam shouts into the air.

That makes Wanda frown and tilt her head at Nat in a silent question. She’s definitely not yawning anymore.

Nat pinches the bridge of her nose, then plants her feet firmly on the ground and throws her hands to the sides.

“Okay, everyone, calm the hell down,” she orders. “T’Challa isn’t an enemy, he’s on our side, and he doesn’t care for the Accords. My word enough for you?”

Wanda thinks for a moment, then nods, relaxing her stance, if not her spell. Sam isn’t convinced that easily.

“Oh, so now he doesn’t care?” He flies a few inches backwards to better glare at Nat. She checks her nails. “Why the flip-flop, hm?”

Nat’s smile is smooth and casual and just a tiny bit deadly. “Red tape doesn’t go very well with a catsuit,” she explains sweetly with an artful twirl of her wrist. “Kinda ruins the entire ensemble.”

Sam seems to find that logical enough, thank God. He grumbles something but glides down and folds his wings.

“Now, you.” Nat turns to Steve, her smile gone without a trace. She fixes him with her most withering glare, at which he just cocks his eyebrows and splays his hands in the air because seriously, Nat, what else is he supposed to do. “We’ve spent three months tracking those yahoos,” she says, like Steve hasn’t been there the whole time. “Our first and probably only chance to intercept them without endangering civilians is here, when they make the delivery.” Yes, Nat, Steve knows all of that, what’s your point. “You’re not leaving and you’re not taking the jet.”

Well.

“But,” he starts.

Nat cuts him off. “He’s in good hands, Steve.”

“But.”

Bucky should be in Steve’s hands. Should have always been. Steve should have never let him go. Should have held him, should have caught him, should have been there for him every goddamn step of the way.

Nat’s face softens. She glances at Wanda, who flicks her fingers and gently lowers Steve to the ground. Without the magical tendrils keeping him in place, he feels oddly and unexpectedly lost.

“I know, Steve,” Nat says, walking up to him and placing her hand on his elbow. “He’s going to be okay. We’ll finish this business here, then fly to Wakanda, and if there’s anything even the slightest bit wrong, I’ll personally find and dismember every person responsible. Deal?”

Would that it were so simple. But Nat’s right, of course, she is. They need him here. And they definitely need the jet. If he bolts now, people will get hurt. Bucky would hardly approve.

“Deal,” he says, and Nat smiles at him, that rare eye-reaching smile of hers, one that doesn’t double as a threat or a warning.

Sam’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder. “And from now on, you’re sharing _everything_ with this team, asshole,” he says, an outline of the rocket launcher still looming quite distinctly in his glare.

“Oh yeah?” Sam may have a point, but it’s not like Steve isn’t going to mess with him. He’s had to sit through too many thou-shalt-respect-thyself monologues to pass up the opportunity just like that. “What happened to boundaries?” he taunts.

“You’ve forfeited your right to boundaries,” Sam informs him gravely. “But, if you wanna file an appeal…” he trails off, and the wings behind his back twitch with a menacing whirr.

“Yeah, okay, no,” Nat interjects, tugging at Steve’s elbow just as he opens his mouth for a rejoinder. “Back to your corners, everyone.”

As Nat guides Steve away, he hears Wanda whisper to Sam, “What fiasco with Tony?” “Fucked if I know,” Sam mutters back. Okay, well, this team seriously needs to work on communication, Steve can see that now.

Speaking of which.

“How did you know all that?” he asks Nat, when they reach his tent. “I don’t remember telling you anything either.”

Her shoulders do a little wave. “I’ve been texting with T’Challa,” she confesses, in a feat of uncharacteristic honesty.

“Didn’t you zap him with your zappy things in Germany?”

“Yep, and he ratted me out to the Security Council.”

He keeps looking at her.

“We made up,” she says, back to her normal level of slyness. His eyebrows must be very loud, because she snickers and elaborates. “I sent him a cute pic with a very apologetic cat. It said _‘im sowwy’_. No apostrophe, ‘w’s instead of ‘r’s. He liked it. So, now we’re kinda text buddies. Exchanging cat memes. Also, intel.”

Steve mulls this over. “What’s a meme?” he asks.

Now, how does Nat manage to look both profoundly sympathetic and irkingly insulting.

“Aw, Steve. You still have so much to learn about the internet.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“I’ll teach you,” she promises and pats his cheek. “But let’s catch a wink first, okay? Got a big thing coming.”

And, hopefully, an even bigger thing after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see something you like, let me know! And come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/need_more_meta) and/or [Tumblr](https://need-more-meta.tumblr.com/) where I flail about my fandom faves, flail about my fic writing, and flail about everything, really.


	2. Please Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky texts his first word and Steve is _gone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this thread](https://twitter.com/need_more_meta/status/1298361660130963457) for some extra NASBB materials (moodboard, fancast, movie poster, etc.)!

Sleep is obviously out of question. The jacket-pillow is all rough seams and hard creases that threaten to leave some properly monstrous imprints on Steve’s skin. Despite several layers of kevlar wrapped over them, the buckles dig into his neck in the most uncivil way. His sleeping bag is too thin, and Steve feels every single dip and bump of the ground beneath him. His eyes dart across the dome of his tent over him, as his brain turns itself inside out, anxious to wrestle a new plan out of his current plight, something immediately actionable, something to occupy him before the idleness drives him insane. 

Missing Bucky has never been easy. Steve’s had too many chances to confirm that simple fact of his life: without Bucky, he’s unmoored, cursed to roam the maze of his being, cataloging all his mistakes, scrutinizing everything he’s ever done or failed to do, searching for the point where he let it all go so wrong. Even now, when things are starting, impossibly, to look up, when Steve has an actual shot at getting Bucky back for real, where is he? Miles from nowhere, on a mission he invented himself, because he’s such a great fucking hero, sticking it to all those paper pushers in their three-piece suits, gorging on his own bullshit, proving he doesn’t even know what.

He needs to get out of his head. Bothering Nat any more seems inappropriate, as well as possibly fatal, Wanda should get her rest, and he’d prefer to postpone all interactions with Sam probably indefinitely. Whipping his phone out, he texts the King.

_Your Highness. Something has come up. I can’t come down now. Please keep me updated. Thank you._

The tent is designed for a regular person, so Steve is already having a bit of trouble fitting himself into the limited space. A thick rubbery smell seeps down from the walls, sticking to his skin. Behind the impassive glare of his phone, the drab canvas around him turns viscous and pitch-black, and Steve feels downright confined. He stares at the screen. Why is the screen trembling.

Oh. It’s his hands.

Eleven excruciating minutes and thirty-two seconds later, his phone pings.

_Dear Captain. Your friend’s vitals are within normal limits. Shuri is running more tests. Wakanda forever._

Steve re-reads the message several times until his mind stops spinning, anchors itself to the clinical clarity of the words. Normal limits, that’s good. Tests, that’s good, too. And he’s met the Princess. Brilliant, cocky, sharp as a needle. It’s as Nat said: Bucky’s in good hands. Things are as good as they can get. He should try to sleep, so he can wrap all this vigilante shit up as fast as possible, and then he’ll see Bucky, and things will only get better from that point on. Things will get goddamn freaking fantastic. 

After thirty-six minutes of desperate tossing, turning, and moaning miserably into kevlar, Steve admits defeat and reaches for his phone again. He needs more. He has to know everything.

He has to be there. See with his eyes, hear with his ears, touch with his skin.

He’ll have to settle for the next best thing for now.

_Your Highness. If you could let me know of any new developments as soon as practical, it’d be much appreciated._

He spends fifteen minutes trying to will the screen into producing a reply. It doesn’t work.

_Your Highness. Could you please provide more details on the situation? Thank you._

Another fifteen minutes. The next best thing is surely taking its time. 

_Your Highness. If there is any information you can share, I’ll be very grateful._

By the end of another fifteen goddamn minutes without any response, Steve is running out of both the polite ways to phrase his inquiries and the fucks he is inclined to give about staying polite.

He tries again. He can’t wait anymore.

_Your Highness. How did the tests go? What is Shuri saying? Please update._

_Please do not hesitate to tell me everything. However minor._

_Seriously, anything will do._

_Any updates?_

_Is everything okay?_

_Is he still awake?_

_How does he look? Is he tired? Can he talk?_

_Has he said anything? What did he say?_

_Does he remember me? Has he asked about me? What did you tell him?_

_Does he know who you are? Does he know who he is?_

_Has he tried to kill you? If he has, please don’t hold it against him._

_Has anyone tried to kill him? Have you? Don’t you even dare._

_Is he eating? Have you fed him? What are you giving him?_

_Plums. He likes plums._

_Also chocolate._

_Did he sleep well?_

_Do people dream in cryo? Did he?_

_Do you have plums there?_

_He needs notebooks. Do you have paper? Should I send some?_

_Tell him I miss him terribly._

_No, sorry, don’t tell him that._

_Please update._

_Please update._

_Please update._

He’s typing another frenzied plea, when the King finally replies.

_Dear Captain. Shuri is setting up a phone for your friend. I will send you the number. Wakanda forever._

The screen is shaking so hard, Steve can barely make out the words. The next twenty-two minutes and fifty-four seconds are the longest in all of Steve’s lives, deaths, and afterlives.

When a new message is delivered, it’s just a string of digits framed by a greeting and a signature. The number etches itself into Steve’s memory instantly and permanently, and the serum-induced super-brain shit has nothing to do with it. As if Steve would let anything that can bring him closer to Bucky slip away. No, sir, that information stays with him no matter what. He’ll forget his own name before he lets _that_ go. With just enough presence of mind to send a cursory thank-you to the King, Steve taps the new message icon.

He gazes at the screen, suddenly petrified. The screen gazes back, blank with endless potentialities, its blinding whiteness charged with all of Steve’s dreams and fears and things he never looked at for long enough to name.

Ever since the helicarrier, hell, ever since the train, Steve’s had so much he wanted to say to Bucky. He still hasn’t. The time was never right, or so he tells himself. There were more important things to discuss. Did Bucky know Steve. Which Bucky was Steve talking to. Did Bucky remember that damn redhead with her stupid bear and stupid nickname. Was Bucky sure about this, about disappearing into frozen silence for another god-knows-how-long.

Now, though, in the pressing blackness and the gelatinous solitude of the tent, there isn’t anything more important than the glowing rectangle before Steve’s eyes. Years worth of words swarm behind his ribs, press into his windpipe, wind their little syllables up the root of his tongue, and his hands shake.

He licks his lips and something starts tumbling from his fingertips, something that his mouth barely manages to follow, moving silently as letters materialize on the screen.

_Hi, Buck! It’s Steve. I’m sorry I can’t come right away. Have to take care of something first. Even though all I want to take care of is you._

His ears grow very hot. Where did this come from. Swallowing hard, he deletes the last sentence and continues.

_I’ll fly down as soon as I’m done here. Please wait for me. I’m so glad you’re awake. Does it mean they got it all out of you? Even if they didn’t, I’ll love you anyway._

What the fuck is he saying. He bites his lip and stares at his fingers. It’s not like he didn’t know, of course, but he’d never even whispered the words to himself, so why on earth did his fingers decide it was okay to just go and put them out there in black and white. Damn Sam and his stupid jokes. It’s obviously his fault. Steve shakes out his hands and rewrites the last sentence.

_Even if they didn’t, we’ll think of something. We’ll sort it out. I promise. Don’t you worry about anything. I got you. I’m with you till the end of the fucking everything. I will go to the end of time with you and I will fight fucking Morlocks for you, if I need to, because you are my_

Holy fucking crap. Dazedly, Steve deletes the last two sentences symbol by symbol, while his brain is rebooting its higher functions. Maybe Steve should switch to asking questions instead of spilling his guts all over what should be a simple welcome-back text. He tries out the new tactic.

_How’s your new place? Is everyone treating you well? You’ll tell me if anyone is giving you any trouble, okay? Do you have everything you need? Please tell me if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what. I’ll get you whatever. How’s the weather there? Are you making any friends already? Where are you staying? How’s your shoulder? Do you have enough clothes?_

Okay, he should probably slow down. But these are all important questions. Everything about Bucky is important. Steve doesn’t want to overwhelm him, though. His own post-ice recovery was quite a rough ride, after the initial adrenaline rush wore off. Wakandan defrosting techniques must be miles ahead of SHIELD’s, not to mention Hydra’s, but it still can’t be easy. After a few moments of deliberation, Steve adds one last question. 

_What I mean is, how are you, Buck?_

There. This should do it for now. 

Steve hits send. For the next seven minutes and twelve seconds, he doesn’t breathe. Then his body demands oxygen because, apparently, it cannot understand the gravity of the moment. He sucks in some air and stops moving. More minutes pass. He’s counting them all.

Come on, Buck. You’re literally killing him.

His phone pings. He opens the message.

It says:

_Warmb_

Due to security concerns, their messages, apart from being triple-encrypted, are set to self-destruct in fifteen seconds upon read. It takes Steve five to get to Nat’s tent and shove the phone into her face. Fuck propriety.

“What does this mean?” he demands, as she blinks at him, something black and metal glinting between her fingers. “What language is this? Is this code? Is he hurting? Is something wrong? What is he trying to say? Does he need my help? Should I go? Nat.”

To her credit, Nat doesn’t try to choke or stun or even hit him with anything. She dutifully checks the screen before the message disappears.

“Steve,” she says, her eyebrow twitching ever so slightly, “it means Barnes is warm and not very good with touch screens.”

Oh. Bucky’s warm. Steve feels his chest grow warm, too.

“Go get some sleep, Rogers,” Nat says and settles back into her sleeping bag, dragging her pillow over her head.

So Nat has an actual pillow. Maybe she really should be in charge.

There’s a refreshing spring to his step when he walks back to his tent. The air is clear and nice, filling his lungs with the sweetness of a new day just starting out, carrying all the hope in the world on its light whispery breeze. His ears pick up the slightest rustling of the tiniest leaf from miles away, and he listens to the woods brim with life. Birds chirp, rodents scurry, bugs munch on tree bark. Everything is moving. Everything is alive.

His back starts to itch in that way it gets when someone’s watching it with eyes that are too sharp and too heavy for comfort. He turns around and looks up.

“Got more ants up your ass, Cap?” Sam grouses from his perch above Steve’s head. It’s hard to read Sam’s expression behind the red goggles, but neither the set of his mouth nor the curve of his eyebrows promise anything pleasant.

Steve smiles anyway.

“I’m texting with Bucky,” he tells Sam per their new sharing agreement. “He’s _warmb_.” Steve enunciates the extra letter carefully, like it’s the most precious letter ever written.

Sam pushes his goggles up to squint at Steve.

“Cap, did you just fucking giggle?”

Maybe.

Steve squints back. “That a problem?”

“Nah.” Sam shakes his head and replaces his goggles. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Tell your boyfriend I said hello.”

Correcting Sam seems like a waste of both time and energy, so Steve just huffs and ducks into his tent.

Some of the morning freshness follows him inside, wafting up the walls and around him. He re-balls his jacket, and when he lies down, the ground under him is smooth and marshmallowy. He’s not sure why he ever thought it was a bad thing. His fingers buzz as they flutter over the on-screen keys.

There’s so much he wants to say. There’s so much he needs to tell Bucky.

There’s just so much.

_I’m happy to hear that, Buck. I really am. Honestly, I’m just happy to hear from you at all. Even if it’s something bad, I’ll still be happy. I’ve missed you like hell. Every word from you is already more than I hoped for._

Oh, get a goddamn hold of yourself, Rogers. Keep to the fucking point. He scratches the last two sentences.

_Bad is better than nothing. We can fix bad. Nothing is just that, nothing. I’ve had enough of nothing, and I think you have too. Something is always good. Whatever something you have going on there, just jot me a line, will you? Anytime. Thanks. Oh, and Sam says hello. You remember Sam? The guy with the cool wings and uncool attitude._

And a totally incomprehensible sense of humor.

A few seconds after hitting send, he types another message.

_P.S. Touch screens are a bitch. The keys are so tiny. Insufferable._

Breathing comes easier this time. Also, the wait is three minutes twenty-three seconds shorter.

The new message reads:

_Hello samb_

Steve realizes he’s hugging the phone only four minutes six seconds later, when it pings again.

_Ps just like you_

Oh, Buck. Oh, you didn’t. Steve has to hide his head under the jacket-pillow, so he doesn’t wake up the entire woods with his laughter. It’s the best laugh he’s had for years. Trilling in his veins, tickling the back of his throat, pouring light in and out of his chest, filling his entire body with air and lifting him up, until his soul is one with the sun. Bucky’s back, he’s practically here, Steve can almost hear his voice.

The message types itself.

_Jerk._

The reply is almost immediate.

_Pink._

It’s nice to know Bucky’s getting better with his phone. Look, he’s found the period.

~

When Nat comes to drag Steve out of his tent, he’s still waiting for Bucky’s reply to the latest barrage of questions Steve’s sent him.

“We got movement. Pack up, Cap,” Nat orders, all business and no respect for other people’s struggles with century-old emotions or modern-day technology.

Steve sits up, but his eyes stay glued to the phone screen. Nat clears her throat. He doesn’t move.

“Oh, for shit’s sake.” Nat lunges toward him. When she tries to pry the phone out of Steve’s fingers, the noise that escapes him is too plaintive to be described as anything but keening. Nat sits back on her heels. “What was that, Steve?” she asks, shoulders jerking up and down in suppressed laughter.

It’s his turn to clear his throat. Not that it helps much.

“I, uh, I’ve been discovering a whole new range of sounds I’m capable of making,” he says, mustering whatever dignity he has left.

Somehow, this makes Nat’s shoulders jerk even more.

“Oh, Steve. Wait till you and Barnes get a room,” she says and shoots him a look that makes Steve’s cheeks burn.

No, Nat, not you too. Ugh. How’s he supposed to focus now.

~

Fortunately, the mission is a walk in the park, so it’s not like Steve even needs to focus that much.

First, the base isn’t even a proper Hydra one, just a decrepit research facility buried deep in Eastern European woods, another product of the nuclear craze of the previous century. After the Insight Data Dump, Hydra’s surviving offshoots have been repurposing such sites all over the world because some people don’t learn anything ever. Steve’s team dedicated half of their efforts to uncovering those recycled dens of evil and razing them to the ground, but no one hid their dirty secrets as good as paranoid power-thirsty genocidal dictators, so that was taking a while.

The other half of Steve’s team’s efforts has been funneled into treading on the heels of the remains of Rumlow’s thugs, whose independent contractor’s contracts had been several dummy companies too far to make it into the Dump. Unfortunately, the damn thugs kept adamantly to densely populated areas and public means of transport, which meant do not fucking engage, Rogers, remember Lagos? That’s right, everyone fucking does.

Three months into this tedious surveillance duty, they witnessed the bad guys stumble upon a stash of hybrid Chitauri-SHIELD weaponry that looked very world-dominationy and, luckily, didn’t work for shit. For the thugs, it was a chance to prove their worth to Hydra and help rebuild its empire of terror. They just needed to deliver their loot to a working Hydra research base. If Steve and his team could meet them there, they’d cut off two slithery heads with one strike.

The plan was pretty straightforward: find out where the thugs were going, stake the place out, ambush the bad guys when they arrive, wrap every snaky bastard up for the officials, destroy every single bit of Hydra’s research, including the weapons, and skedaddle. So far, they’ve only had to make one slight change.

Ever since Steve’s team went underground, Nat has been taking care of the skedaddling part single-handedly. She selected one of her gajillion safe houses at the last minute, depending on how much attention Steve’s total disregard for the best stealth practices has managed to attract this time and whose attention exactly. This mission is the first one in months where Steve knows exactly where he’s going as soon as he’s done.

Straight to the safest house in the world.

Straight to Bucky.

 _Bucky_.

Eyes on the target, Rogers. Not _that_ target, dammit.

The mission is a walk in the park, and it almost goes well.

Steve’s doing such a great job at pretending to concentrate on the action, he’s ready to believe it himself. Hit, kick, jump, flip, repeat. Piece of cake. He could do this all day. Punching bullies is what he does, what he is, right until he feels something vibrate against his thigh and his brain short-circuits, blanking out everything else. There’s a thud, a yelp, a screech, someone’s shouting, the world spins, and Steve can’t see shit, can’t hear shit, can’t think shit.

Red light yanks at him. The spot where he just was is hit by a ray of blue light. That’s not possible. Shouldn’t be. The weapons didn’t work. There was no way for the thugs to repair goddamn alien tech on their own. This shouldn’t be happening.

“When did they...?” Steve starts asking, forgets the question before he finishes it. His hand is tearing at the zipper of his pants pocket, when Nat dashes to his side, stopping him with a hiss, and she’s right, they don’t have time, they need to regroup, just one second, he has to check.

Nat shouts something into their comms, Steve hears Wanda respond, can’t understand a word they’re saying. He doesn’t hear anything from Sam. Nat’s hand jerks, something explodes, several people scream, Steve doesn’t recognize the voices. Something yanks at him again, a hand this time, there’s more shouting, the person is shouting at him, the person is Nat, he should listen to her.

“Run,” she’s saying, and his body complies, reduced to sheer reflex.

His legs are hitting the ground, following Nat’s convoluted path through the trees. He doesn’t hear the din of pursuit behind them, but he doesn’t hear much of anything right now, except for the dull ringing in his head, so he trusts Nat. He turns when she turns. Stops when she stops. Drops and rolls when she does. Jerks his hand away from his pants when she kicks his shin and pushes his head down. Flattens himself against mud and grass. Waits.

“I think we’ve lost them,” Nat says. She isn’t looking at Steve.

Wanda’s voice crackles on the comms. There’s still nothing from Sam. Steve almost gets his hand into his pocket, when Nat grabs it and hauls him up. She doesn’t say anything. Her face says enough.

They meet Wanda back at the jet. Nat herds them inside, strides to the controls, flicks some switches, and the jet shimmers in place, vanishing in the forest air. The cloaking system makes them invisible to their enemies, giving them time to assess the damage and lick their wounds in relative peace. Steve wishes there was a system that could make him invisible to his friends as well.

First, because he doesn’t know how to meet their eyes right now. Second, because he has to fucking _check_.

His hands move, his knees falter, there’s a feeling, there’s a sound, there aren’t any new messages, then there’s just static.

~

_Fuck Bucky fuck shit Buck I fucked up oh God I fucked up bad they got Sam fuck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this fic “45k of nothing happening” and this right here was the first and last piece of anything resembling _action_ that you’re going to encounter. I don’t know how it wormed its way here, and I sincerely apologize. No more things happening from this point on.


	3. Ten Percent of A Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Steve deals with the aftermath of his getting distracted, Bucky has a little adventure of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see something you like, let me know! <3

[1h ago]

_Dear Captain. It took three fully loaded tranquilizer guns to keep your friend from fleeing the country. Apparently, your latest message led your friend to believe that he was obligated to leave immediately in order to, let me quote, ‘save that goddamn idiot’s ass then kick it f**king senseless.’ Whatever your current predicament, please remember that your friend will be most probably shot on sight as soon as he leaves my jurisdiction. Try to be more considerate in your future missives if that is at all possible. Wakanda forever._

[34 min ago]

_Dear Captain. Each of the tranquilizer guns was designed to take down an adult battle-trained rhino. Your friend is already regaining consciousness. Our supplies of sedatives are dwindling. Wakanda forever._

[16 min ago]

_Dear Captain. Your friend has seemingly accepted that our vibranium-reinforced containment chamber is indeed unbreakable and agreed to wait until further updates from you. Wakanda forever._

[Just now]

_Dear Captain. I have never seen anyone make pacing look so intimidating. Your friend is fucking terrifying. Wakanda forever._

_~_

“Check your goddamn phone, Steve, you can’t feel guilty forever,” Nat snaps at him, when the offending device pings for the fifth time in the last hour or whatever. Steve stopped tracking the time after his phone slipped from his fingers, the whoosh of a sent message muffled by the dull thud of reinforced plastic hitting the jet floor. He doesn’t quite remember what the message said. He’s absolutely sure he’s already regretting it.

His eyes sweep the room furtively. Nat’s hunched over Wanda on the other side of the jet, and Steve can’t see either of their faces. It’s probably for the best. Steve’s blurted out enough sentence fragments between the running and the phone-dropping, so both of his remaining teammates must be pretty much disgusted with him right now. That, Steve deserves. What he doesn’t deserve is even looking at the nasty thing still lying innocuously in the middle of the passenger area. Not when this is what caused the entire shitshow in the first place. Steve presses himself deeper into his seat at the corner of the wing section, in a vain attempt to get even further from the six inches of electronic treachery pretending to be a device designed to make human lives easier.

Nothing easy about this mess, you stupid gadget.

Blaming inanimate objects is definitely not a healthy coping mechanism, as Sam would have pointed out, but Sam isn’t here, is he.

“I mean, you can, of course,” Nat huffs, and Steve tightens his jaw, very much ready to accept the challenge. Wordlessly, he watches as Nat finishes stitching up the cut on Wanda’s forehead, the one that he put there. Then the sharp line of her back tilts and her voice softens. “But you shouldn’t.”

Steve slumps further in his seat, letting his head fall onto his chest and his arms dangle pointlessly between his knees. “It was my fault,” he mutters.

“Yes, it was,” Nat agrees dryly, standing up and moving across the jet. “So what?”

Oh, nothing at all, Nat. Just Sam ending up hauled right into the Hydra lair, together with the now-somehow-working spy-alien tech they were meant to prevent from getting delivered there. All because Steve deemed imaginary activity in his pants to be more important than watching where he lands, thus crashing into Wanda and leaving Sam’s back wide open to the blue light that tore through the carbon fiber like it was goddamn tissue paper.

And Steve’s phone wasn’t even on silent.

Of all the stupidest, dumbest, most moronic ways to fuck things up.

In fact, how can Steve even be sure he has any new messages right now and it’s not just his rotten brain playing tricks on him again.

Right on cue, his phone pings, a jarring trill, mockingly loud in the grim silence of the jet.

Without stopping on her way to the pilot section, Nat kicks the accursed bundle of circuits and pure devilry toward Steve. It clatters against metal until it bumps into Steve’s boot, and Steve winces, shutting his eyes as tight as superhumanly possible.

His hands cramp into fists, clammy with guilt, and his guts tighten. Anger pinballs through him, hitting all the tender spots, trapped inside with nowhere else to go. It’s on him, it’s all on him. He gets distracted, and people around him get hurt. A great fucking hero, sure. Always doing the right fucking thing, except that his definition of right is so disastrously, selfishly skewed. It doesn’t matter if there’s a star on his chest or a shield in his hands or a lofty moniker slapped over his head, it never did. The world can dress him in whatever it wants, call him whatever it pleases, paint him as its savior, its martyr, its scapegoat, he won’t care unless it gets in his way, and then he won’t care so much more. He doesn’t have it in him to care if the world burns. His focus is too narrow, his mind too one-track for that. He runs his mouth big, but he keeps his heart small, no place in it for anyone but Bucky, and what kind of hero does this make him, huh.

The phone at his feet pings again, and Steve all but whimpers.

Sam would have made another hideous joke about his ‘boyfriend’ just about now. Instead, the only sounds are the clicks and beeps from the pilot section. And light footsteps, coming Steve’s way across the jet. Then some rustling. It’s very close. He unshuts his eyes a little bit.

“Hey.” Wanda crouches next to him, offering eye contact if he wants it.

He doesn’t want any contact at all.

His eyes slip to the stitches on Wanda’s face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, trite and inadequate.

“I’ve had worse,” she shrugs, which is true and doesn’t make Steve feel any better.

His teammates deserve a better leader. Dammit, his friends deserve a better friend. Someone who doesn’t drag everyone around him into a war too personal to be righteous. Someone who can care about more than one person at a time. Or at least recognize when he can’t.

“Do you remember what you told me when I fucked up in Lagos?” Wanda speaks after a while, and Steve’s surprised at how steady her voice is. She was devastated by the incident, broken by the guilt and the fear, but now she talks about it without flinching, her face hard and serious but unclouded. Did Steve do that. Were his words really that inspiring. Did he manage to say something right, for once.

She gives him a few moments to reply. When he shakes his head, she nods and admits, “I don’t.”

Of all the low blows, Wanda.

“But I remember what you did,” she continues, and it flicks some of the lights back on in him. He tilts toward her, eager to hear what she means. She obliges. “You stood up. You fought on. You never stopped.” She shifts closer. “You protected me. Protected all of us.”

Steve frowns at her, confused. That’s not how he remembers it.

“I abandoned you all to be shipped to the Raft,” he reminds her, just one instance of him placing one life, one person, one name above everything and everyone else. What’s worse, he’d do it all again, trade the whole planet for one man in a single beat of his wretched heart and never look back. Shouldn’t take a mind reader to know it, really.

Wanda laughs softly. “You didn’t leave us there, did you?” she asks with a teasing lilt, like it’s a trick question.

Well, of course he didn’t. How was that even an option. It was bad enough they had to spend _any_ time in that inhuman shithole. Steve sure as hell wasn’t going to let them rot there a second more if he could help it. The mere thought makes him nauseous.

“That’s who you are, Captain,” Wanda says, the answer to her riddle which Steve’s still struggling to understand. “You care so naturally, you don’t even notice,” she explains, tender and confident, with a hint of admiration that catches Steve entirely unprepared. “But we do.”

Oh.

Maybe it’s Steve who remembers it all wrong.

He finally meets her eyes. The warmth in them almost knocks him out of his seat. He’s pretty sure Wanda isn’t using her powers right now, and yet he feels strangely uplifted, the invisible tendrils of her words knitting the pieces of him back together. His hand finds Wanda’s and squeezes, grateful. She squeezes back.

“Your heart,” she says slowly, meaningfully, lifting her other hand to point at Steve’s chest, “it’s the size of the universe. Trust me, I’ve seen it,” she adds before Steve can raise an objection.

“Can’t argue with that now, can I?” he mutters with a huff that is supposed to mean defeat but comes out hopeful.

Her eyes twinkle at him. “So you give, say, ninety percent of your universe to one person,” she estimates, and Steve doesn’t see any point in arguing over whatever calculations she’s performed to arrive at that value. It’s pretty accurate, after all. “You still have ten percent left for everyone else. Ten percent of a universe is a damn lot of space, Steve.”

That doesn’t sound like any math Steve knows, but who is he to doubt it when it makes such perfect sense. Definitely way more sense than the all-or-nothing equations his brain usually comes up with.

“Thank you,” he tells Wanda, hoping he can mirror the warmth she’s just given him. She squeezes his hand again with the gentlest smile Steve’s seen in months. Whatever he’s done to earn this, it couldn’t possibly have been enough.

He ought to do more. If his body can heal a bunch of bullet wounds in less than a week, then his brain is already taking too long to get over one non-lethal screw-up. His friend needs his help. Enough wallowing in guilt for the day. Time to tap into that ten percent of his heart that would rather have Sam back and cursing the shit out of Steve’s lovesick ass than waste time trying to do that himself. Bracing his hands on his knees, Steve turns toward the pilot section as his eyes search for Nat. “I gotta fix this,” he announces, ready to jump off bridges and run into active volcanoes.

“Working on it,” Nat calls from her station next to the pilot seat, eyes locked on a bluish translucent screen floating in the air in front of her, apparently projected from something on her wrist. It doesn’t look like any Stark or SHIELD tech Steve’s seen, but he knows better than to ask Nat where she gets her gear. Redwing is hovering slightly above her right shoulder, making unhappy little beeps. “Calm down, birdie,” Nat tells it and pets its front tip. “We’re gonna find your daddy.”

Right, this mission doesn’t have volcanoes. Well, maybe he could find some bridges.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks as Nat lifts one of the Redwing’s plates and pokes inside the drone.

She gives him a wink and a crooked smile. “Make sure you aren’t waiting for any messages next time.”

For all her ferocity, Nat might just be one of the kindest people Steve knows.

~

Catching up on the unread messages is its own brand of a roller coaster. Steve decides to go chronologically, so he doesn’t miss any important details and accidentally jump to the wrong conclusions. The self-destruction feature makes it exceptionally difficult to revisit the context, and Steve could really do without messing up anything else in his life, at least in the foreseeable future.

First, there’s a message from Bucky, delivered almost immediately after Steve’s frantic string of expletives and incoherency.

_Cominf dont die asdjole_

Though this is decidedly not what Steve expected, he can’t help the giddy flutter of his heart when he reads it. The last word is beyond his deciphering skills, but he doesn’t care. He cherishes the sentiment. No matter where Steve is, what he does, or how stupid he’s being, Bucky will unerringly rush to his side, even if he has to kill an entire army or rise from the dead himself. It’s their best kept secret: everyone thinks Steve wouldn’t know self-preservation if it hit him on the head with an airplane, but the truth is, Bucky is the reckless one between the two of them. He’s the one who chose Steve Can’t Run Away From A Fight Rogers for a bond that keeps transcending the limits of time, space, and sanity. God only knows why.

As for Steve, well, he’s just mad for Bucky, which is probably no secret at all.

He moves on to the string of texts from the King. The first one makes his vision go dark and shaky. What in the actual hell. Fuck it, it’s not jumping to conclusions when someone literally puts guns and Bucky in one sentence and not on the same side. With blood pounding in his ears, Steve drives his fingers into the screen so hard it starts creaking.

_WHAT THE FUCK I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE DON’T SHOOT ANYTHING AT HIM_

Naturally, one all-caps message isn’t enough, not when someone somewhere has pointed something other than an appreciative look at his Bucky.

_IF YOU HARM HIM IN ANY WAY I SWEAR I WILL COME AND SHOOT YOU MYSELF_

No, two messages are not cutting it.

_SERIOUSLY YOUR HIGHNESS WHAT THE FUCK_

On second thought, which is actually the first conscious thought Steve manages after reading the message, the King’s reasoning is more than sound. Hasn’t Steve just spent a disproportionately happy moment being fascinated by Bucky’s indomitable recklessness. The King’s actions might have saved Bucky’s life for real.

Not that Steve’s going to thank him for shooting things at Bucky. Geez.

As he gloats over the evident panic in the King’s second message, his phone pings with a new one. He taps it open.

_Dear Captain. Kindly fuck off. Wakanda forever._

Fair enough.

The third of the missed messages from the King rekindles some of Steve’s fury, but the last one leaves him feeling incongruously proud. Oh, Bucky. Instilling awe in the ruler of the most advanced nation on the planet. Who is also a superhero. With a vibranium suit. Yeah, that’s his boy.

(Not his boyfriend.)

He’s down to two unreads. Both are from Bucky, delivered after the King’s messages, just a few minutes apart. The first one reads:

_Not cominf. Hope you ate noy deadx._

Aww. Bucky’s calmed down enough for punctuation, if not for patient typing, which must be a good sign. In the last message, however, he obviously took care to spell exactly what he meant:

_Asshole._

So that’s what ‘ _asdjole_ ’ was. How sweet. Steve grins despite himself and sets to type his reply.

_Hi Buck. I’m not dead. I’m so sorry about this mess. Guess I shouldn’t text when in shock. Consider lesson learned. Seriously, I’m sorry. You don’t have to come and rescue me. We’re taking care of this. I’m okay, Nat’s okay, Wanda’s okay, and we’re going to get Sam out. And then we’ll fly down and I’ll be with you, and nothing else will matter. I miss you, Buck, you can’t even imagine how much._

Once again, Rogers, that’s two sentences more than you ought to be saying. Press delete. Hold. Resume.

_Anyway, that’s all the news on my part. How about you? The King told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Bucky. How are you feeling?_

He hits send and starts fidgeting immediately. Waiting for a miracle in the dimmed hush of his tent was a transfixing, immaterializing experience, but the havoc of the hours that followed has left Steve dripping with nervous energy. By the time the new message arrives, his hair must resemble a bird’s nest ravaged by a pack of wild cats, and his uniform has not a single wrinkle left for him to smooth. He almost drops his phone on the metal flooring, as he scrambles to open the message and read the single word it contains:

_Sleerpy._

That after three doses of rhino-grade tranquilizers. Yeah, alright, not-his-boyfriend is certainly fucking terrifying.

“Wrap it up, Rogers, I’m in,” Nat calls from her screen, and he turns to see her grinning. Well, stretching her lips wider than usual. She pats Redwing on the wing. “Good birdie. I’ve reversed his signal, so now we have everything from Sam’s goggles.” 

The screen before her sprouts a bunch of smaller translucent rectangles filled with all sorts of tactical data, diagrams, travel paths, graphs, X-ray images, a picture of Nat in flannel pajamas wait what. As Steve raises a curious eyebrow at her, Nat flicks the incriminating screenlet, and the picture is gone. He keeps the eyebrow up. Nat rolls her eyes and points to the center screen, which appears to host a live feed. It shows a thoroughly displeased yet more or less unharmed Sam. So, the bad guys were smart enough to take his goggles off but not smart enough to destroy or disable them. Excellent.

But he’s totally digging around about that picture later.

“He looks okay,” Steve concludes after studying the feed some more.

Nat hums in agreement. “My bet is they don’t quite know what to do with him.” She lifts a hand and starts ticking off her fingers as she thinks for the thugs aloud. “They could give him up to the authorities, but they’d expose themselves too. Killing him is just wasteful, but keeping him at their base too long is dangerous. They know Captain America is already onto them and definitely coming back, and that’s a fight anyone would rather avoid. Their best option is trade, with us, and they don’t want to undersell.” She looks at Steve as she finishes, a question hanging off her pursed lips.

Like she needs to ask. “No trade,” Steve says simply, not even bothering to jut out his chin.

“Figured so,” Nat nods, turning back to the shifting images on the screen. “Oh, look, someone’s turning the goggles around. Yes, baby, give me the entire layout, who’s the good Hydra dummy,” she croons at the feed, murderously delighted.

“When are we moving?” Wanda asks, coming up to stand beside Nat, red sparks already flashing at the tips of her fingers.

Nat waves her screenless hand at Steve. “Whenever Cap can spare some time to join the party planning committee.” 

As tempting as that sounds, he still has Nat’s earlier directive to follow.

“Give me a minute,” he says, waving back with the phone in his hand. Nat and Wanda exchange a glance and a smirk that make Steve’s neck heat up under his collar.

Laugh all you want, people, this is important. He types quickly:

_Have some rest, Buck. And don’t you worry. We have them on the ropes._

The reply doesn’t take long.

_You better._

Steve grins at the phone. Now he’s ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While you’re waiting for the next chapter to post, may I interest you in checking out my little MCU one-shots? There’s [the one where the Avengers make a huge Steve-centered hugpile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053145), [the one where Loki loses hope, finds hope, loses hope, and finds hope again, all in one night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24896875), and [the one where Thor and Loki remember how to be brothers again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203073). I’d love to hear what you think! <3


	4. Aircraft Engineering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat is a saint, but y’all already knew that.

“How the fuck did this happen.”

“Whoa, Cap, nice to see you too. I’m alright, thanks for asking.”

“Get over yourself, Sam, we have a situation here.”

“Sam, stop, no, don’t kill him.”

“Thanks, Nat.”

“Just watch him huff himself to death. More fun that way.”

“Thanks withdrawn, Nat.”

“What? It’s entertainment. We might need a lot of that.”

Good fucking Lord. There must be at least one sane person left on this team. Steve searches for Wanda’s eyes. He finds her standing apart from the others, head down, fingers flying nimbly over her phone screen, stopping for a few moments, then moving again. Is she texting someone. Whom could she be texting. Everyone she knows is either dead, here, or not on speaking terms with any of them. As far as Steve’s informed.

His team has too many secrets. Would be a nice time to reveal a useful one for a change.

He stares at the smoking disaster before him and tries to keep desperation out of his voice when he addresses his team. “Does anyone know anything about aircraft engineering?”

Silence. Of course.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the longer strands, as if he could pull some neat simple wonder plan out of his perfect soldier skull, swoop his team up and get them all out of this godforsaken forest at last. Not that he doesn’t like the forest itself. It’s a nice forest. With trees and bushes and stuff. If not for the deplorable lack of certain fellow centenarians, Steve might’ve even welcomed some time off in communion with nature. But that particular issue is a deal-breaker. He squares his shoulders.

“I say we just drag it... somewhere far enough,” his hand makes a wide circle next to his head, “and then go from there.” Not his best plan, but at least it’s a plan. A first step of a plan. Whatever. It’s something.

“Drag, like, with your bare hands?” Sam asks, because his fascination with Captain America somehow doesn’t include any respect for anything the said Captain does or says. “That’s crazy talk, man.”

Steve shrugs. “Done it with a chopper before.” It’s not bragging when it’s true.

“Don’t wanna burst your bubble, Cap, but this thing’s slightly bigger.”

Why does it feel like bursting Steve’s bubble is Sam’s main purpose in life.

“Wanda?” Steve searches for Wanda’s eyes again, and this time she actually stops typing and looks back at him with what Steve decides to interpret as genuine interest. He nods at the sprawling problem in front of them, then at the woods behind their backs. “Think we can do it? If we join forces, I mean.”

Wanda purses her lips and lifts one shoulder in Nat’s trademark I’m-offended-you’re-even-asking shrug.

That’s settled, then. Also, excellent impression.

“Y’all are cuckoo,” Sam concludes, rubbing his face furiously. When he emerges out of his palms, his jaw is set and his eyes are blank with resignation. “I’m outta here.”

“Your suit’s busted,” Nat reminds him, handing him the Falcon backpack she’s retrieved from Hydra’s trophy room.

Sam puts it on, spreads the wings, and surveys the damage. “I’ll walk.”

“Hmm.” Nat tugs at the tip of Sam’s mangled wing like it’s some last-minute Halloween costume instead of an engineering masterpiece. Steve silently approves. “You know,” Nat drawls, pressing a finger to the corner of her mouth, “you’re right, we don’t really need you. Birdie and I are best buds now.” She strokes Redwing, which is hovering loyally over her shoulder, and it beeps happily.

Steve watches Sam’s heavy glare meet Nat’s beaming smile with a mixture of fascination and pure animal terror. Respectively.

“Like hell you don’t need me,” Sam mutters finally, folding his wings and swiping at the control panel on his forearm. Redwing gives Nat’s shoulder an apologetic nudge and flies over to Sam's side, then zooms into the woods.

After a few minutes of studying the data the drone feeds to his goggles, Sam sighs and points. “That way.”

Nat turns to Steve and Wanda. “You’ll probably want to keep it sideways,” she suggests helpfully. “There might be some trees in the way.”

“Well.” Steve braces his hands on the metal and glances at Wanda, who nods firmly, red light whirling around her wrists. “Heave ho.”

~

_Hi Buck. Sam’s back with us. He’s already tried to kill me at least once, so I guess he’s okay. The bad guys are all packed nicely and waiting for Interpol to pick them up and lock them down. We left an anonymous tip. The weather’s nice, and none of us are severely injured. So, that’s the good news. How about you? Any good news yourself?_

_Tell Samb I dont like him._

Steve isn’t sure it counts as news, but alright.

_Will do. Now for the bad news: our jet got damaged. We managed to get it to a safe enough place, but we’re now stuck here until we can fix it. I don’t know how long it’s going to take._

“Definitely way longer than should be legal,” Steve mutters to himself before he can type the words just to redact them anyway. These days, too many things seem to be legal when they really shouldn’t. A weight settles on his chest, where the star used to be. So much is different, and even more is wrong.

He’s afraid of what may spill out of him if he keeps typing, so he hits send and waits for the reply.

_Sucks._

Yeah, Buck, it does.

Closing his eyes, Steve rests the back of his head against the ground where he dropped flat on his back as soon as Nat deemed they were indeed somewhere far enough. He’s probably pulled half of his muscles and tore the other half, but that pain at least means he’s been doing something. Now that the first step of the plan is over and the second one doesn’t even exist yet, restlessness starts pushing its way through exhaustion, leaving him in an uncomfortable position of wanting to overturn entire government regimes and being unable to move a pinky.

Sam’s voice snaps him out of his brooding. “Care to haul your ass up here, Cap, or does your boyfriend have exclusive rights?”

So good to have that guy back.

“Bucky says he doesn’t like you!” Steve shouts in Sam’s general direction.

“Tell your boyfriend he has the worst taste on the planet!”

Before Steve can respond, another voice joins in. “Well, he picked Steve, so no surprise there.”

Oh dear god.

“You too, Nat?”

“Entertainment, Rogers. Look it up.”

It’s unclear whether it’s the healing factor or the righteous indignation that helps Steve collect himself from the ground and stagger toward the voices, but he’s pretty sure about one thing: as much as he hates these clowns, they do make his chest feel a little bit lighter.

~

Up in their indefinitely grounded jet, they huddle around Nat’s blue screen, which is now full of intricate schematics, all marked with Stark’s logo.

Steve frowns. “Do I want to know how you got these?”

“I have a backdoor in Stark’s systems,” Nat says with that hint of challenge in her voice that means he should stop asking questions.

On Steve’s right, Wanda shifts and rubs her nose, like an embarrassed chipmunk. It’s hard to tell in the dimness of the jet and the glare of the projected screen, but Steve could swear her cheeks have a distinct pinkish shade to them. Hiding stuff from your teammates isn’t healthy, Wanda. Trust Steve on that. 

Nat’s voice jerks him back to the screen. “The jet sustained structural damage to the left wing, and the cloaking system has been compromised in the subsequent crash,” she recites, pointing to the corresponding parts on the schematics. This doesn’t sound good. “I can handle the software, but we’ll still have a gaping hole in our camouflage with wing insides sticking out of it.”

“That’s not very stealthy,” Steve observes intelligently.

Nat gives him a tight smile as a reward. Or punishment. It’s hard to tell. “And, obviously, we can’t fly. Because,” she swipes at the screen, replacing the schematics with Redwing’s live feed of the jet in its current state, and taps her finger at the relevant section, “gaping hole.”

The hole is, indeed, gaping. Redwing flies through it, rotating slowly, so everyone can get a good view and reflect on just how screwed they are.

Plenty. They are plenty screwed.

Sam raises his hand. Nat turns to him with a face that could illustrate a textbook on intimidation tactics, but Sam somehow construes it as a permission to speak freely. “First, nice gimmick.” He nods at the screen. “Who does a guy need to—”

“Next question, please,” Nat interrupts him with a pleasant smile straight out of a shark documentary.

“That’s cold, ma’am,” Sam complains, then throws his hands up in surrender. “Next question, okay. Why did you even bring the jet with you?”

“Oh, our air support guy didn’t show up,” Nat replies airily. “And Cap thought we needed a diversion.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Steve tells Sam and immediately realizes it was a mistake.

“Oh yeah?” Sam fixes him with a glare that doesn’t have a hint of gratefulness in it. “Why, thank you, Cap, next time I’m in the mood for a magical night at a cozy Hydra hotel, I’ll just phantom text you myself. Or does that work only when you’re pining for your long-distance boyfriend?”

What. How. Why. Steve glances at Nat and mouths _“You told him?”_ at her. She purses her lips and gives him a half-hearted shrug, which must mean _“yes”_ and _“bite me, Rogers.”_

Steve doesn’t have the energy to deal with this. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” he mutters stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest and wincing at the pull in his sore muscles.

Sam looks like he has a million retorts to Steve’s statement, but before he can say anything, Nat clears her throat, bringing everyone’s attention back to the screen. They turn, obediently, to see the live feed replaced with a bunch of multicolored graphs. Nat enlarges one and points to a thin red bar at the bottom of it. “We are also low on fuel.”

That distracts Sam. “How the hell did they get to the tanks?” he asks, and this time Steve empathizes with both the frustration and the incredulity in his voice. 

“They didn’t.” Nat sighs. “The last one’s just poor planning.”

Terrific.

“Can we fix it?” Steve asks after everyone is done groaning, facepalming, and being otherwise unproductive.

Nat’s eyes dart a few millimeters to the side where Wanda is standing. Wanda’s chin travels about the same distance down and is back up in a fraction of a second. Both movements are so minute and fast that, unless you knew exactly what to look for, it’d take superhuman eyes to notice either. Good thing Steve has exactly those. Not that it makes anything any clearer.

“Yes,” Nat says, which does make things a little bit clearer. But not by much.

Before Steve can think any harder about this, Sam slaps him on the shoulder. “Good news, Cap,” he cheers wryly, his head going into that special new tilt he’s developed that indicates an incoming attack of a very particular nature. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“If you say anything about a ‘boyfriend’, I swear I’m gonna break your nose in five different places,” Steve growls.

A snort is not the reaction he was going for. Sam changes his head-tilt from invasive to irreverent. “I look like I’m scared of you, big guy?”

Oh, okay, Steve didn’t want to pull out the big guns, but if it’s about the scare factor, well.

“I’ll tell Bucky you’re being mean to me.”

Turns out, snorts are pretty infectious, because Nat and Wanda both make the same offensive sound, while Sam quirks one of his eyebrows all the way up to the jet’s roof. Thankfully, he does shut up and step back. Then he catches Nat’s eyes, flaps his hands sarcastically, and mouths _“boyfriends”_ at her. Nat nods solemnly. Wanda starts giggling.

Dammit, Wanda, you were Steve’s last hope.

Fighting down the overwhelming urge to simultaneously collapse onto the floor and rip apart some logs with his bare hands, Steve straightens up, plants his feet wider, and clasps his hands over his belt buckle.

“How long is it gonna take?” he asks in his most Captain America voice.

“What? Admitting that Barnes is your boyfriend?”

So much for the scare factor.

“Fixing the damn jet,” he says, loud and slow, so his words get punctuated by the metallic echo bouncing off the jet’s walls.

His teammates bite their lips in such a synchronized motion, Steve suspects they get to practice it way too often. He doesn’t want to think why he’s never seen it before or why he isn’t in on this little trick.

Nat turns back to the screen. “If we do everything right, the repairs themselves shouldn’t take more than a few hours. But we have to get some supplies first. And some tools. This one’s a bit beyond our emergency kit’s capacity.”

Please say you’re kidding.

“Where the hell are we going to find tools and supplies for fixing a Stark quinjet in Romania?!”

Not to mention the fuel.

Nat and Wanda hold another silent conversation with each other. This one’s a bit longer and involves some extra movement of Wanda’s shoulders.

“Well,” Nat says after they’re done, “I might need to poke around that backdoor some more.”

This makes Wanda’s cheeks switch from pinkish to clear red. Okay, whatever this is about, Steve is officially way too old for it.

He turns so he’s looking at Nat and Wanda at the same time. “Do whatever you need to do,” he tells them both, “just get this thing up in the air.”

They nod. Good. He makes for the hatch, desperate for a session of peaceful texting under some quiet tree that makes no jokes, hides no secrets, and is generally the opposite of annoying.

“Any orders for me, Cap?” Sam shouts as Steve hops out.

“Try learning another joke!” Steve shouts back.

Not gonna happen, obviously, but at least he tried.

~

The tree trunk is a marginally better headrest than a balled-up uniform jacket, though the bark is far from smooth and Steve’s overgrown hair keeps catching on it. Despite the thick reinforced cloth of his pants, twigs poke at his ass in ways that are all kinds of disrespectful. With the sun hanging low in the gray overcast sky, the ground is chilly enough to bite. The great American ass squirms in protest.

Come on, ass. They’ve had worse. They’ve crawled in rain-soaked trenches, hiked through frozen Europe, sat in a goddamn glacier for almost seventy years. Surely they can handle some cushy woods about three thousand miles away from the only place he could probably still call home someday.

If Bucky lets him.

Drawing his knees closer to his chest, Steve unlocks his phone and starts a new message.

_Hi Buck. Everything is fucked._

Not his best opening line. He starts over.

_Hi Buck. So, it sucks even worse than I thought, and I just_

“—can’t hold my shit together,” he finishes to himself and presses delete until the cursor slams into the left edge of the screen.

Third try’s the charm. You can do it, pal. Think of the good stuff.

_Hiya, Bucky. Things are just peachy. Apple-pie perfect. Totally killer diller._

Steve lets the phone drop onto his stomach before his fingers produce any other verbal abomination. Wrapping his hands around his legs, he presses his forehead to his knees and shuts his eyes. So, this plan for peaceful texting is clearly not working. Maybe he should just stop making any plans. Considering how far south his plans have been going lately.

While he contemplates the hypothesis—fact—that the serum must have, among other things, inflated his natural prowess in fuckupery, which was pretty impressive to begin with, his phone pings. Too miserable for movement, Steve flips the phone so it lies screen up on his stomach and curves his neck further down to read the message. It’s from Bucky.

_Hey Stebe._

It seems kind of crazy to get so excited about a typo in his own name, but what do you know.

Still curled on himself, Steve works on his reply. He doesn’t have the strength to hold the phone, so he types by dangling one finger over the screen and sticking it into the appropriate keys from above. It’s not an efficient technique, but he doesn’t have much to type.

_Hey Buck._

His mind is clean out of words, just a dull pulsing need in a sea of white noise. There used to be so many words between them. Steve would rant, Bucky would quip, and they would bicker for hours on end, spinning full-size novels with their smartass mouths in the span of one lazy evening. The words must have gotten frozen in all that ice, crushed to pieces under the heavy roll of the years neither of them asked for, melted into cold helpless puddles around them as they were forced to wait, too long, again and again.

The ping of the new message sends a thrill down his spine.

_You alright?_

Steve traces a finger over the short message until it’s gone into the oblivion that is supposed to keep them safe. The irony of this arrangement isn’t lost on him. But it doesn’t matter. Steve’s memory will cling to this stump of a question, with all the multitudes it contains, and it will never let go. Not while ten letters and a question mark are enough to warm Steve up, head to toe, inside to out, past to the present.

So what if their verbal powers got a little rusty. It was never about the words.

Three thousand miles away, with a whole new world to learn, after the apartness of the goddamn century, Bucky cares. Knows what to ask, when to ask, how to ask.

Of course Steve’s alright. He types so.

_Yes, Buck. You?_

As he waits for the reply, his nose picks up the electric sweetness of twilight spilling around him. The air brushing against the exposed skin of his forearms is cold, but it’s a welcome kind of cold. A soaked towel pressed to a recent bruise. A snowball rubbed into his face. A compress lain over his burning forehead, driving away the fever. All by the hand that is now busy typing on the other end of the world.

_Yes. Shuri is teachinf me about the interbet._

Steve smiles at the screen.

_That sounds fun._

_It is._

It’s the best thing Steve’s heard today.

~

That’s how Nat finds him: huddled over his phone, grinning into his knees, crumpled and buoyed at the same time.

“Steve.” She prods him with her boot. “When was the last time you slept?”

Not since that life-turning, sky-clearing, head-fogging text from the King, that’s for sure. And he was very much run down when that happened. Huh. He tries to add the numbers in his head, but his brain is sloggy.

“Eighty or so hours ago. I guess.”

Nat grips his forearms and pulls hard. His body is too heavy, even for her. Especially when he isn’t inclined to cooperate.

“Stop being a bigger moron than you already are, Rogers,” she scolds, nails scratching at his skin.

“Got things to do,” he mumbles into his legs.

“Nope, you don’t.”

“Since when are you in charge?”

“Since you said so.”

Damn. He did, didn’t he.

“Can I put you out of charge?”

“Should you?”

Valid point.

“Come on.” Nat pulls at his arms again. She might not budge his bulk, but she may well break his skin. Which would heal in mere minutes. Or not, if she keeps doing that. Bothersome.

“Mmmgh,” he says, which is both a strong argument and a solid counter-proposal. He’s just not sure what his point is exactly.

She stops pulling for a second and drops next to him, probably searching for his eyes. He opens the one closest to her. Nat’s expression is more tender than he expected. Could be just the starlight.

“Sam and I are going on recon,” she tells him. Her voice is soft. Not just the starlight, then. “Wanda’s on watch. You’re on sleeping duty. Understood?”

If she puts it like that. Besides, it sounds very rational. And he’s really really tired.

He lets her help him stand up. Walking feels funny. So much swaying. Makes his head go giggly.

“Shuri’s teaching Bucky about the internet,” he boasts as Nat steers him toward their new camp.

“Huh.” For some reason, she fails to be impressed. “What could possibly go wrong with that.”

Aw, Nat. “Why are you such a sourpuss.”

“Because you’re such a dumbass.” She shoves him into his tent. He doesn’t remember putting it up. He definitely doesn’t remember having a pillow. “Now sleep.”

Well. Widow’s orders.

(And, very likely, Widow’s pillow.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Bucky's typos are absolutely genuine: I typed the texts one-handed on my phone, and since I hate touch screens and can never hit the right keys even with both hands...... Suffice it to say that in a couple of cases I actually had to make the words a bit more recognizable for the fic because my hand produced pure gibberish. So, Bucky is doing pretty well for a grandpa from the 1940's! :D
> 
> As usual, if you see something you like, let me know! <3


	5. Full Lumberjack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a saint too, but y’all already knew that as well.

_Hi Buck. We haven’t made much progress yet, but we’ve found a deck of cards, so there’s that. Remember that trick you taught me? It’s been a long time, but I think I still got it._

_Stebe no._

_~_

_Hi Buck. Still no progress, except Sam says he will never play cards or anything else with me again._

_Sucker._

_~_

_Hi Buck. I must admit that playing poker with one of the world’s best spies and a mind reader was not a very good idea. I lost all my protein bar rations for the next five days._

_Youre a dimbass._

_~_

_Hi Buck. Remember when we dreamt of being hunters like Natty Bumppo so we could eat meat every day? Well, guess what, I’m living the dream!_

_Stebe eat your vefetables._

_~_

_Hi Buck. I miss you so much, it’s unbelievable. It’s unbearable. It’s unfair. And it’s crazy. The more I talk to you, the more real I know you are, the closer to you I feel, the more it hurts to be so far away from you. I’m afraid that if I hear your voice, I’ll snap and just fucking walk all the way to_

Whoops, Rogers. Press delete. Hold. Hold.

_~_

Days roll slow as Steve and his team alternate between scouting, brainstorming, and staring into the void. Well, the last one is mostly Steve. Nat and Wanda occupy themselves quite okay with clandestine conversations made up mostly of vague gestures, bizarre facial expressions, and occasional giggling. The latter sometimes is and sometimes isn’t accompanied by a loaded look in Steve’s direction. Steve doesn’t want to think too much about that. In the meantime, Sam is well on his way to setting a world record in napping. Steve wishes he could fall asleep just as easily or at least as soundly. Instead, he jogs for hours between trees, passing it off as checking the perimeter and hardly fooling anyone.

His phone’s battery is supposed to last for weeks, but he’s still trying to conserve the charge and doesn’t let himself bombard Bucky with messages, like his fingers itch to. In an exercise of willpower, he has decided to limit himself to a nice and brief daily update. With maybe an extra message or two. Which is a perfectly reasonable amount of communication for two strictly platonic friends who haven’t properly talked with each other since the time when instant messaging seemed about as realistic as telepathy.

If only they had known. Bucky would have been so thrilled.

Steve’s experience with casual non-avenging-related texting is limited, but not entirely non-existent. He knows that Nat texts the same way she talks: dry, vaguely condescending, distinctly threatening, and only when absolutely necessary. He knows that Sam texts even worse than he talks, with random photos of plants, arcane quotes from fortune cookies, and news about things Steve has no idea about. He wouldn’t be able to understand the latter in any case, since half of the words are usually abbreviated beyond recognition. Steve isn’t sure whether Tony’s customary strings of animated images qualify as texting. What he is sure about is he’s never again trying to pronounce the three-letter word that’s supposed to be the name of those things. Last time he did, a war almost broke out at the Compound, prevented only by an Assemble alarm. Steve’s own texting style has been described as ‘okay for a fossil’, ‘you’ll get there man’, and an animated image of Tony Stark rolling his eyes, the last one accompanied by an actual Tony Stark rolling his eyes.

Steve likes to think he’s gotten better since then. But he’s not willing to push his luck and ask anyone again.

As for Bucky’s texting, well. It’s surely evolving. To the point where Steve isn’t quite sure whether the now obligatory typo in his name is actually a typo.

Regardless, it’s probably the only thing that keeps Steve’s heart from bleeding out with each next night he has to spend stuck an entire damn continent away.

~

Steve’s fingers fly as he finally has some news.

_Hi Buck. Sam and Nat found where we can get all the stuff we need. Well, it was mostly Redwing, but they helped. You’ve met Redwing, right?_

_yep. cool bird. better than sam._

Where are your caps, Bucky. And what happened to the typos. Steve was kinda growing fond of those. At least Bucky’s feelings about Sam are a reassuring constant.

Steve’d like to explore that particular subject in greater detail, but it’s time for the disappointing follow-up. Because, of course, there is one.

_The stuff’s in three different places, though. One’s abandoned, but the other two are heavily guarded, so we’ll need a plan. Which might require more waiting. I don’t know how much more waiting I can take._

Wow. That deteriorated quickly. Suck it up, Rogers. The last sentence is out. It’s a good day, no need to ruin it.

_Hopefully, not too long._

There, much better. Now send.

The reply is full of that unconditional trust and boundless support that Steve cherishes the most about their (not-a-boy)friendship.

_don’t fuck it up._

Well, since he asks so nicely.

_I’ll do my best. How are you? How’s the internet?_

_lit._

What. How can you even get the internet drunk. And Bucky shouldn’t be able to get drunk either, unless the Wakandans have some serum-defying booze up their sleeves. Steve wouldn’t put it past them. The idea of excessive alcohol consumption during recovery from sensitive neurological manipulations worries him a little, but hey, he’s no brain scientist. Shuri’s there, and she must know what she’s doing. He types his reply, keeping it non-judgy with a dash of cheerful.

_Have fun. I’ll keep you posted._

_thx._

Now wait a second.

~

“Bucky texted me a contraction.”

“And?” Nat makes an effort to look puzzled.

“That’s… weird.”

“How so? Did you all speak like robots in the forties? Don’t glare at me like that, how should I know? I’m not a dinosaur.”

“Neither am I. Not that kind of a contraction. A texting contraction.” Nat’s eyes begin shifting from puzzled to pitying. “Like tee-aitch-eks.”

“Still not following.”

Steve huffs and rubs his face. Is Nat genuinely willing to help him? Is she messing with him? Who can ever know.

“Remember how long it took me to get used to all that texting stuff? Like, two, the number, instead of ‘too’, the word. Or your ridiculous acronyms. That crap.”

Nat claps her hands to her chest theatrically. “Oh-em-gee, months of fun, yes.”

Glaring at Nat has proven to be completely useless, but it doesn’t mean Steve should stop trying.

“It’s like code, only dogshit crazy and serves no intelligible purpose.”

“Sure, sure, grandpa. What’s your point?”

“My point is, I’m pretty sure I’m the only person Bucky’s ever texted.” Hydra was hardly interested in developing any personal rapport with its brainwashed asset. And it’s not like Bucky had a chance to make any new friends between the helicarrier and the CIA. “Just a few days ago, he was struggling with hitting the correct keys, and now he’s texting in contractions.”

Nat’s chin goes up as her puzzled frown smoothes out. Yes, thank God, that look of dawning understanding is much more to Steve’s liking. No, don’t, stop crinkling your entire face up, why is everything so damn funny to you, Nat.

“Shuri’s teaching him about the internet, did you say?”

“Yeah. So?”

Nat just shakes her head. “Go get Sam and Wanda,” she orders, tapping the screen-producing thing on her wrist. “We should probably move faster,” she adds under her breath, “or Barnes will seriously beat you in the art of the twenty-first century communication.”

As he turns to leave in search of his teammates, Steve has a sudden suspicion.

“Does ‘lit’ mean something different nowadays?”

Judging by the way Nat rests her face against the back of the nearest chair, it does.

Shuri. What exactly are you teaching Bucky and why does Steve have such a bad feeling about it.

~

The strategy meeting quickly brings new shades of stormy to Steve’s already not-so-sunny disposition.

“Why can’t we just knock down the front door.”

“Because it’s a Stark facility, Rogers, and we’re kinda sorta hiding from the law right now.”

“Maybe also don’t wanna kill anyone. Just a thought.”

“Yes, also that. Thanks, Sam.”

“You know me, girl. Always looking out for the little guy.”

“Don’t give me that face, I care about people too. Wanda, what about your mind control? Can you make the guards bring all the stuff to the front door?”

“Rogers, what’s it with you and front doors?”

“Yeah, you’d think that dude’d be more interested in back doors.”

“God, Sam, that’s just gross. Nat, no, stop, don’t high-five him! Oh, go to hell, both of you. Wanda, you were saying?”

“I don’t exactly control minds. I read them.”

“Well, can you read the minds of all the guards and see if anyone is willing to betray their employer?”

“I could read _your_ mind, Captain. Aloud.”

“Please don’t, my ears are very innocent and I heartily intend on keeping them that way.”

“Sam, your ears can’t be innocent. Unless you never listen to what your mouth is saying.”

“Damn, Nat, you got me.”

“Can we goddamn focus here?!”

“Whoa, someone sounds pretty wound-up. No word from your boyfriend, Cap?”

Steve stomps out of the jet so hard, it’s a miracle the ramp doesn’t break off. It may have a few new boot-shaped indentations, though.

~

Being technically a criminal doesn’t bother Steve. It’s having to stay low that gets to him. Too much like the bedridden days of his sickly youth, with the covers heavy over his shaking body, straitjacketing him in place, pinning him down with no options other than try to glare the world into being a better place. Serum or no serum, Steve Rogers’s blood has always run too hot for his circumstances, a constant call for action thrumming between his ears, at the back of his head, in the green-flecked depth of his eyes. Sitting still never worked for him, even when it was the only choice available. He wants to move, to jump, to throw, to hit and kick, anything, something, just let him do something, he needs it, he must.

The tree cracks under his fists, and starts careening backwards, the roots bursting from the ground with a long creaking groan.

Someone claps from behind Steve. “Going full lumberjack, I see.”

“Not in the mood, Sam.”

Steve’s just fell a fucking tree with his bare hands. Take a goddamn hint, pal.

“Dunno what you mean,” Sam says, careless and on the wrong side of sensitive. “I’m gonna go look for a river. Redwing says there’s one nearby. You with me?”

Steve blinks at him. “What? River? Why?”

What does it have to do with Bucky.

Sam glances him over critically.

“Well, maybe your fancy serum makes your well-shed patriotic sweat smell like some fucking frangipani, but I’m a normal person with normal appreciation of hygiene. And this body,” Sam straightens up and gestures proudly over the exhibit in question, “shall not stink.”

“There’s a shower on the jet,” Steve points out, feeling that he lost track of this conversation before it even started.

Sam grimaces. “Come on, man, I don’t wanna know where that water comes from. Or what super-science nano-quantum shit that high-tech porta-potty does to our shit. Nah, I’m taking nature over all this sci-fi crap.” Steve hasn’t thought about it like this, and now he desperately wants to stop thinking about it. Oblivious to his predicament, Sam looks Steve in the eye as he asks again. “So, you with me?”

With an effort, Steve stops pondering the mysteries of the jet’s sanitary facilities and concentrates on what Sam’s saying. It sounds plausible enough. A very reasonable argument. A strong case made for the necessity of a side mission—or, more precisely, a distraction.

Maybe Sam is actually on the right side of sensitive, and Steve’s being an idiot.

Well. What else is new.

“Okay,” Steve says, brushing the bits of bark off his knuckles. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

Sam’s face lights up with smugness. “Follow the red bird,” he says, claps Steve on the shoulder and shoots off.

“Hey!”

It takes Steve the entirety of two seconds to locate the drone zinging through the air a few yards to his right, with Sam panting studiously on its tail. So, you wanna run, little guy? A grin spreads over Steve’s face.

He runs.

He’s shouting “On your left!” to Sam after six seconds. Redwing picks up the pace, and Steve follows. The air rushes at him, hitting his flushed face, the cold flow clashing with the hotness of his skin. Steve licks his lips. The wind tastes like power.

“So much for the head start!” Sam yells after him, without even trying to sound annoyed.

Steve doesn’t know how much time has passed by the moment his ears catch water purling behind the trees. He comes to a stop on the edge of a little stream, drops to his knees, and splashes the water on his face. His lungs are twice the size of his body. His head is lighter than a kid’s party balloon, lost just as easily in the limitless sky above him. He drinks the water in eager greedy handfuls, feels it reach every cell of his being, sweet, radiant, incandescent.

Like Vita-Rays, minus the pain.

Something rustles behind his back. “You… couldn’t… have… waited… for me,” Sam pants, tumbling out of the trees to join Steve on the river bank.

Steve looks back, mouth full of the stream water. Sam’s standing close on Steve’s right, bent over, hands on his knees, head dropped low, breathing heavily. Too close.

The water goes to Sam’s face straight out of Steve’s mouth in an absolutely magnificent spray of droplets.

“Refreshing, right?” is the only thing Steve manages to say while Sam blinks hard a few times, processing. Then a muscle in Sam’s jaw twitches, and he dashes over to tackle Steve into the water.

The stream is just deep enough to let them roll around in a mess of yells, limbs, and violent splashing without actually drowning one another.

“If I strangle Captain America in a forest and no one’s around to hear it,” Sam grunts, while Steve idles in his chokehold, “does it make me a traitor to the nation?”

“You already are, buddy,” Steve informs him, then lifts Sam’s hand pressed over his throat and rolls away.

“You could do that all along, man?” Sam carps in half-hearted surprise.

Steve finds a mossy rock protruding from under the water and rests his head on it. Not the worst pillow he’s had in the last few weeks.

“Didn’t plan on doing laundry today, but okay,” he murmurs. His uniform is waterproof, but with all the scuffling, the water has trickled its way under it, down his collar, up his sleeves, around his belly.

“Well, man.” Sam makes himself comfortable on the smooth rocks as well. “Didn’t plan on a lot of things.”

“Yeah.”

Steve pulls off his boots and throws them to the bank. His toes curl at the influx of chill, pleased. Glancing sideways, he notices Sam peel his wet clothes off and chuck them out of the river, then drop back down and shut his eyes with an exaggerated shiver resolving itself into a contented sigh. Steve decides to follow suit. He isn’t disappointed. The stream purrs around his body, lapping lightly at his edges, soothing and smoothing the tension out of his skin. Above him, the sun glows white, the entire world a fuzzy cotton ball pressed to his closed eyelids.

“So,” Sam calls to him through the haze, “you ready to tell me about that fiasco with Tony?”

Steve isn’t. But he does.

The story still feels wrong in too many ways to count, but telling it feels right. Like rubbing a spot out of his conscience. A small one, compared to others, including the ones he’s describing, but no less significant.

Sam doesn’t interrupt. He stays silent for some time after Steve stops talking. Keeping his eyes closed, Steve draws a deep breath and focuses on the gentle water rippling around him. Whatever happens now, happens. Maybe Sam will chew Steve’s ass for being a whole new kind of dumbass. Maybe he will crack a particularly impudent joke that will somehow fix things. Or maybe he will get up and leave and never talk to Steve again.

It wouldn’t be the first time Steve lost a friend over a secret he shouldn’t have kept.

“So that’s fucked up,” Sam says.

An accurate summary of the entire train wreck, and none of Steve's predictions. It jolts a mirthless laugh out of Steve. “Yeah.”

“Damn.” Sam smacks his lips. Something tells Steve he doesn’t want to see Sam’s face right now. He can hear the eyebrow-bending blend of impressed disapproval and horrified disbelief anyway. “You make it sound like Barnes is the sanest one of y’all.”

Oh well. “Maybe he is.”

“Nah. That can’t be right.”

As Sam retreats into contemplative silence, Steve relaxes into the stream. He spreads his fingers under the water, letting the current slip through his hands.

“Damn, man,” Sam sighs eventually, and Steve knows that head-shake without having to look, “if that shit didn’t teach you that keeping secrets is bad, I don’t know why I even bother.”

“Hey, I’m making progress here.”

“Yeah, sure.”

There isn’t any bite in Sam’s voice, so Steve decides it’s safe to think that this went pretty well, all things considered. No one has even tried to tear anyone’s limbs off. Yeah, Steve’s finally getting back on the right track after the epic derailment of the last few months. 

Despite the freezing temperature of his impromptu bath, Steve feels close to snoozing off, when the quiet gurgle of the stream is interrupted by sounds definitely human-made and coming from Steve’s right. He cracks an eye open to see Sam dragging his arms and legs up and down over the rocks and spouting jets of water out of his mouth in an entirely unconvincing impression of a whale making a snow angel amidst a Romanian forest stream.

“Hey,” Steve calls, feeling sluggish and amused at the same time.

Sam turns his head. His cheeks are bulging with water, which he promptly ejects in Steve’s direction. The jet falls short, but it’s the thought that counts, so Steve raises his right arm and drops it down. He moves lazily, without any particular spite. A few droplets land on Sam’s face, making him crinkle his nose, then the corners of his eyes.

“What, man?” he asks, amiably enough.

“Why do you keep a picture of Nat on your goggles?”

“Ah.” Sam folds his arms behind his head and looks up, squinting at the sun pinned high in the clear sky. “You saw that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, watching Sam’s face. Sam doesn’t look chagrined, yet there’s a hint of wistfulness ghosting over his lips. “It’s a nice picture,” Steve ventures.

“Sure is,” Sam agrees. He arches his back, stretching against the rocks, then lies back down, settling into the memory. “Between missions. You were busy with some PR shit, and we had a movie marathon at the Compound. Popcorn and PJs, the whole shebang. That’s when I took it. Nat let me keep it.” He starts absently scissoring his feet up and down, making little plinks on the water. Before Steve can make any comment, Sam shoots him a sly smile. “‘S not what you think.”

“I didn’t think anything,” Steve protests. Okay, it’s not like the idea that something might be going on between his teammates never crossed his mind, but it’s not like he’s dedicated any significant amount of time to it either. Sam’s a great guy, when he isn’t being horrible, and Nat’s one of the greatest people Steve knows, so why the hell not. They already make the same jokes.

“I can hear you thinking, man.”

Oops.

Steve slides down, so his face is fully underwater, and exhales, sending bubbles to pop on the surface. He can hear Sam laugh, short but honest. A forgiving laughter, and a friendly one.

“Seriously though,” Steve says as he re-emerges. “Why on your goggles?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s a nice reminder,” he says, rubbing the back of his head against his forearms. The wistfulness from his lips shadows up over his face and settles in the lines around his eyes. “That someone made to be so fierce and deadly still has the choice to be soft and adorable.”

It’s a nice thought indeed.

“And that, at the end of the day, even people with lives as hectic as ours can have a moment of peace,” Sam adds, and the wistfulness melts into hope in the warmth of his voice. “Mind you, I’m not complaining. I like what we’re doing. But there are other things to life, too. Don’t wanna forget that.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of peace, huh. Steve wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading and commenting! Comments give me life. <3<3<3


	6. The Great Soup Standoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget I ever said Sam was a saint.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not leaving me with him, Romanoff.”

“I very much am, Rogers.”

“That’s bad for the operation. I should go with you.”

“Steve, your concept of stealth is starting a brawl in the middle of a mall.”

“One time, and that didn’t even happen.”

“I’m the only reason it didn’t. You’re staying.”

This is not good. This is not good at all.

“Can I at least stay somewhere else?”

“Cab?” No. “Where’s mah soub?” 

No, no, no.

“Wanda, we’re out. Good luck, Rogers.”

He’s so fucked.

“Soub, Cab. Stat.”

So so fucked.

Where do you even get soup in a goddamn forest.

~

_Hi Buck. We’ve been making some progress. Well, it’s Nat and Wanda, mostly. I’m stuck babysitting Sam, because that asshole managed to catch a cold and is now totally useless, can you imagine?_

_isn’t he always useless_

Good one, Buck.

_He is, isn’t he? I don’t know why I’m even dragging him around. I guess I’m just nice like that._

_more like dumb_

Okay, better change the subject.

_How are things with you?_

_got a bigger house_

Nice to know at least one of them isn’t sleeping rough for a change.

_Good for you, Buck. Doing anything fun there?_

_decorating_

Steve’s memory takes him through the apartment in Bucharest where he found Bucky not so long ago. Small and bare-walled, it made Steve’s heart shrink at first and then explode when he realized what he was looking at — a home, unmistakably so, with splashes of color spelling Bucky’s name against the dingy background. Steve noticed it all, treasured every little detail, every tiny indication that Bucky wasn’t gone after all, was still there, was still himself: the yellow bowl next to the sink, the green spatula on the fridge, the bright tabs sticking out of that well-worn notebook. A story of a life being lived, quietly, almost surreptitiously, but lived all the same. A domesticity, scraped together out of nothing with a tenacity that only someone who has died at least once would understand.

All that, trashed, torn from Bucky against his will, without much warning, and he was ready for it, took it in stride, as if it truly was the only way things could go for him.

Irrationally, Steve feels guilty. Can Bucky make another home for himself in Wakanda? One that doesn’t have the one-leg-in-one-leg-out attitude of a man waiting for a fight to catch up with him. What would it look like?

Would there be any place for Steve?

“Still waitin’ on dat soub,” Sam grumbles from the co-pilot seat where he’s slumped, swaddled in all the incongruous six blankets Steve managed to scrounge from the depths of the jet’s numerous compartments. Leave it to Stark to fill tactical aircraft with gratuitous amenities. Steve’s slightly surprised there isn’t a fully stocked bar tucked under the dashboard. Or maybe they just haven’t found it yet.

He swivels in his pilot seat to fix Sam with a carefully unsympathetic glare.

“How the fuck am I supposed to find you soup? Pull it out of my ass or what?”

Sam looks like he’s seriously thinking about it. That fever must have gotten worse. A twinge of remorse tries to worm its way into Steve’s chest. Tough luck, twinge. They are well into the second week of the great soup standoff, and Steve is beyond done. Sam Wilson turned out to be the crankiest invalid in the world, brimming with demands as incessant as they are extravagant. By this time, Steve has already almost pulled the jet apart on the blanket quest, listened stoically to several hour-long speeches on the inadequacy of their first-aid kit, as well as thirty-minute-long coughing fits interrupting the said speeches, gone on foraging expeditions for non-existent healing herbs, requisitioned all the socks in the vicinity to find the pair that wasn’t too thin, too thick, too scratchy, too stripey, or too stuffed with spy gadgets for Sam to put his “bery delicate toes” into, and gathered every scrap of cloth or paper that could serve as a tissue, going as far as to sacrifice one of his own sketchbooks.

Here, now, Steve’s drawing a line. He keeps his glare steady as snot-soaked gears shift slowly behind Sam’s scrunched-up forehead.

“No,” Sam decides at last and pouts. “No ass-soub.“

“Glad we agree on something.”

As Sam slumps further down, burrowing all the way into the blankets, Steve swivels back and returns to his phone. The last message is gone by then, thanks a lot, Sam. Steve’s enhanced brain keeps all the contents of his correspondence intact for him, but there’s a special comfort in the solidness of the letters on the screen, their straight lines and definite curves, their clear-cut blackness, that Steve longs for. It’s a tangible proof that he isn’t imagining things. Give it enough time, and memory starts mingling with fantasy, more so if you add desperation to the mix. He’s been there. He _is_ there.

Super memory plus super fantasy, sprinkled generously with super desperation, well.

Steve sighs and traces a finger across the screen where the words should be.

“‘S your fauld, by de way,” the pile of blankets informs him for the five thousand eight hundred and seventy-fourth time in the last couple hundred hours.

Steve doesn’t even look up from his phone for this.

“Going for a swim was your idea,” he parries, for the five thousand eight hundred and seventy-fourth time of his own.

There’s only one person in the world who could possibly outstubborn Steve Rogers, and that person is currently busy decorating his new house on another continent.

“A liddle dip,” the blankets mumble petulantly, “dat was my idea.”

“Uh-huh.”

The blankets puff up in the seat, then drop back. Sam must have tried to flap his hands in indignation but got exhausted, the illness sapping his energy too fast for him to do more than sulk and grouse. The upside of that is no terrible jokes in the last ten days. For that, Steve is infinitely grateful to the cold stream.

“Your fauld,” Sam reiterates.

“Maybe don’t start a fight you can’t handle next time,” Steve suggests, for once glad that Bucky isn’t around. He’d almost surely have busted a rib if he heard Steve quote him like that, without as much as batting an eyelid. See, Buck, he’s been listening. He can recite the advice verbatim, so why should it matter that he’s never learned how to actually follow it.

The blankets erupt with a collection of sounds worthy of a place in an alien horror movie score. Included are chilly wet squelches, furious brassy rumbles, and bloodcurdling wheezing, all garnished with what must be a hefty handful of creative cursing. It doesn’t resemble any human language, so Steve can’t be sure, but the cadence seems rather familiar.

Tuning out the audio attack, Steve starts typing.

_Hey Buck. Tell me this: how bad was I when I was sick? And how did you put up with me?_

Sixteen minutes into waiting for a reply, he realizes, with a sharp cold lump dropping from his chest to his stomach, that Bucky might not have those particular memories. Alternatively, Steve was so bad, Bucky’s busy typing up a hundred-page essay on rage and exasperation. The stupid ultra-secure messenger they’re using doesn’t inform its users when the person on the other side is typing. Must be because some people just want other people to suffer.

Staring at the torturously blank screen, Steve can’t decide which option scares him more, his present insensitivity or his past intolerableness. Or the fact that it’s probably both. He stops breathing for the next three minutes and jumps five feet in his seat when his phone pings.

_why_

It takes Steve four rewrites to drop the eleven question marks, then the all caps, then the three ‘fucks’ and two ‘shits’ that God only knows how he’s managed to insert into his message in the first place.

_Why what, Buck?_

This time the reply is fast, although completely unsatisfying.

_why do u ask_

The message is frustrating on two separate levels. First: unenlightening. Is Bucky angry at Steve for asking? Is he sad? He doesn’t want to answer the question or he can’t? How exactly did Steve screw up now? No fucking clue. Second: oh look, another contraction. It leads Steve to suspect that the renewed absence of periods and question marks in Bucky’s texts is hardly an accident. The precise implications of this development are a mystery to him, but if Nat’s reaction to his previous concerns is any indicator, he might need to have a word with whoever is responsible for re-introducing Bucky to the twenty-first century. Which, of course, must be Shuri.

Steve has only met the Princess once, but he remembers vividly the sparks of wildfire in her eyes, playful as much as deadly. For now, he chooses to focus on the first issue.

_Let’s say I’m looking for advice._

It’s as careful as he could put it. He waits for a reply. He receives two in quick succession.

_u were bad more often than u were sick_

_and u were always sick_

So, Bucky remembers. Both their past and how to be a jerk. The icy lump in Steve’s stomach melts a little.

_That sounds exhausting. How did you put up with me?_

He expects a jab. A quip. Possibly a harangue. Maybe a painfully embellished embarrassing childhood story. Or an even more embarrassing teenage one.

What he gets is both surprising and unbelievable.

_didn’t bother me much_

Something bubbles in Steve’s chest, champagne-style, then drifts upwards, teasing his lips into a shy curve. He leans his head on the headrest and brings his phone closer to his face. Fifteen seconds are a short time, but he makes them all count as he savors the message until the screen is clear again.

Pacified, he sets to steering the conversation back to the problem at hand.

_See, Sam’s being absolutely insufferable, and it bothers me A LOT. I thought you could share some relevant experience in this area._

After that, his phone pings three times in a row.

_oh_

_OH_

_u want my advice on how to kill sam_

Since Bucky has rejected punctuation, it’s unclear whether he means this as a question or a statement. He certainly seems excited either way.

_I meant your experience in dealing with the insufferable, but… Would you really help me with THAT, Bucky?_

_totes_

Hm. Murdering the Falcon with shopping bags seems like a stretch, but who’s Steve to doubt the Winter Soldier’s expertise?

“Cab.”

Steve angles his head to glance at the co-pilot seat, where Sam has managed to arrange the blankets into an extremely judgmental heap of misery. The heap announces:

“Soub.”

Shopping bags it is.

~

_Hi Buck. What do you think, if I crush some death caps into a pot of rainwater, will that count as soup?_

_ur cooking skills r finally improving congrats_

~

_did u know they still haven’t found a cure 4 common cold that’s wild_

_I’m very much aware of it, Buck._

~

_Hi Buck. When do you think is the best time to strike? At night, swift and easy, or when he's awake, so he knows what hits him?_

_just do it already_

~

_saw a real ugly bat 2day u wouldn’t believe it_

_I sort of have a real ugly bat of my own here._

_haha good 1_

~

_Hi Buck. I want to apologize for every single time I was acting insufferable. If this is what you had to deal with, I have no idea how you managed to bear me for so long._

_aw steeb_

Okay, that doesn’t look like a typo. If only Steve could also figure out what it means.

~

A few mercilessly long days later, Wanda appears from the woods levitating an impressive stack of fuel drums. Nat trots behind her with a large dark bag that looks like it’s stuffed full of sharp angly things.

“These should be enough,” Wanda says, placing the drums carefully next to the jet.

Steve has a very strong urge to squeeze her in his arms and kiss her cheeks swollen.

“Got one for you too,” Nat tells the pile of blankets that shuffles out onto the ramp. The pile has eye-slits now, so when Nat throws something at it, the thing is swallowed by the blankets with a muffled thud and held tight. A hand wiggles out of the pile, taking the thing and bringing it to the eye-slits. Steve looks too.

It’s a can of soup.

The pile emits a triumphant whoop, followed by an “In your face, Cab!”, and shuffles back into the jet.

“You’re spoiling him,” Steve notes, giving Nat a look as reproachful as he dares. That is, closer to I-would-rather-you-didn’t-please-thank-you-sorry-for-interrupting than his usual how-could-you-betray-all-that-is-good-and-holy-like-that.

Nat rolls her eyes. “Let’s go fix the damn thing.” She shakes her bag in front of her and strides past Steve, motioning for him to follow.

Up in the jet, she moves to set up her superspy screen, leaving the bag with Steve to unpack, while Wanda buries her nose in her phone, fingers typing rapidly. The blankets crawl around the jet with grim determination, the canned soup snug in an improvised sling.

“Looking for something, Wilson?” Nat asks before Steve can warn her.

The eye-slits focus on her, emanating a practically palpable aura of sorrow and dejection, as the blankets proclaim in a voice of someone abandoned, misunderstood, and generally undercared for:

“Sboon.”

The man’s capacity for obnoxiousness is truly inexhaustible.

After two thoughtful blinks, Nat returns to her task, making the choice to ignore Sam’s existence for the time being. Good call, Nat.

The mysterious contents of the bag clang when Steve sets it on the jet floor, metal against metal. Steve isn’t much of an engineer, and even his broad life experience doesn’t include doing custom aircraft repairs, but it’s been nearly three weeks since the fateful text from Wakanda. He’s ready to try voodoo and sacrifice animals to satan if it makes the jet fly.

Anything to get him to Bucky.

As he unzips the bag and starts transferring its contents onto the floor, the air behind him changes, making the hairs on the back of his neck spring up. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Nat freeze in front of her screen. She hasn’t pulled up any of the blueprints or graphs or other maintenance-related stuff. Instead, she’s staring at something that looks like a web page, one vaguely familiar to Steve, but associated mainly with danger, don’t-go-there, and no-Cap-just-forget-about-it.

“Shit,” Nat says.

She turns to Wanda who’s already looking at her with her eyes wide and her phone trembling in her hand.

“Wanda.” Nat’s voice is flatter than a flatline. “You’re on Twitter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> African hammer-headed bats are surely [a sight](https://www.google.com/search?q=hammer-headed+bat&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUA863UA863&sxsrf=ALeKk03khyQZyE2hK_iFwsqz4AHgU2UzsA:1604749953855&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiKrs-3r_DsAhXE-yoKHWQPCK4Q_AUoAXoECCYQAw&biw=1536&bih=666&dpr=1.25).


	7. The Good, The Bad, and The Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Wanda, my sweet sweet girl.

“I should have gone with you.”

“What’s that, Rogers?”

“Then we wouldn’t be in this shit.”

“Oh really? Because a giant dude beefed like a fucking beef market, dragging around ten times his weight in fuel, would not have been conspicuous in any way? Should I mention you’re still wearing your fucking uniform?”

“Um.”

“That’s what I thought. At least Wanda doesn’t look like a pompous ass in her photos.”

Steve almost points out that Wanda looks mostly like a blur in that particular photo, but bites his tongue just in time.

~

_Hi Buck. So, you might have heard, we’ve got a problem here. Apparently, some kid noticed a lady carrying a huge stack of cans without using her hands and thought it was a good idea to snap a picture and post it on Twitter. You know what Twitter is?_

_ofc_

Bucky’s tacit insistence on making their sparse communication even more condensed has been creeping up on Steve’s limits of texting vocabulary at an alarming rate. Fortunately, this one is still within Steve’s grasp, courtesy of Sam’s default reply to any variation of Steve’s “wanna go punch some bad guys?” inquiries.

Also, how exactly does Bucky know about Twitter. Steve first heard the word months after defrosting, and then everyone panicked and Tony did something to his phone so he couldn’t even open the page. The only time any of Steve’s questions about the online world provoked a wilder reaction was when he asked what Facebook was. He’s still in the dark. Nat keeps saying that’s a good thing, though she doesn’t specify, for him or for everyone else.

Maybe Steve can get that Queens kid to give him a crash course, when all this wanted-outlaw business is over. Somehow, he isn’t sure he wants to trust Shuri with this particular task.

Not that he isn’t grateful. He will be forever in debt to her for saving Bucky from dissolving into a mindless death machine at someone else’s will. But there’ve obviously been some unforeseen complications.

_Nat said that thing got some kind of infection? I don’t really understand much about this stuff, but it seems every person in the world has seen it._

_viral_

_it went viral steeb_

Oh, go to hell, Buck.

_Anyway, we can’t take off just now, not with everyone actively looking for us here. And we’ll probably have to sit still for some more time. This is fucking ridiculous and_

—and he’s back to scratching sentences from his messages. The last one has to go. No sense in getting hysterical in his texts. He’d rather do his freaking-outs alone anyway. Preferably with a punching bag.

It’s just that he really really really wants to see this absolutely not a boyfriend of his.

~

“Why can’t I Skype him.”

“Who told you about Skype?”

He scowls. Nat pulls up her bored-to-death face. It’s a tie.

“Security reasons, Steve. We’ve been over this.”

“But.”

“What.”

“We’re stuck here for how long?”

“Gosh, Steve, I don’t know. We have the forces of one hundred and seventeen countries plus every international law enforcement agency on high alert. And that’s just the good guys.” Nat nods at the dashboard in front of her. “Our cloaking system is still glitching, so we can’t take off without alerting every goddamn squirrel in the area. Not that we even could take off, the wing’s still busted, remember?” Steve feels smaller with every sentence Nat throws his way. His ears even tingle with shame a little bit. “And maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m kinda busy at the moment, tracking all the radars that pop up around us so I can make sure we stay the fuck under them.”

Nat gestures to her screen, peppered with moving red dots. That’s a lot of dots.

“What can I do?”

“Get Wanda and patch up the damn wing.”

“Wanda?”

“She has the instructions.”

Now _that_ explains a lot.

~

He finds Wanda hunched on the hapless tree that fell victim to Steve’s most recent bout of solitary freaking-out. She’s clinking the rings on her right hand against her teeth, as her fingers tap a jagged rhythm against the phone in her left one. The blunt tips of her boots dig into the ground, getting smudged with dirt and squashed grass. On her face, anxiety mingles with guilt, both sharpened by a certain lostness lurking under them. Steve thinks he knows that one.

Twigs snap under his boots as he walks closer. The noise is deliberate, a warning of incoming contact he himself has come to appreciate even before going on the lam. Wanda starts, throws a furtive look at him, then curls back on herself, shoulders drooping, knees knocked together.

“I was careless,” she tells her pants, so quiet they probably couldn’t hear. Unless they’ve been injected with some sense-enhancing super serum at some point, which Steve doubts, though nothing is too improbable, not in their lives.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He stops next to the prostrate trunk. Wanda doesn’t look up, doesn’t protest either. He continues, addressing the air around them in his best cranky grandpa tone, “I mean, what were they even doing, creeping around an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the town in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe they were also hiding from something,” Wanda speculates in her hushed pensive drawl.

So, that’s a no to cranky grandpa. It’s okay, Steve wasn’t sold on the idea either.

“Then they should’ve been more understanding,” he points out, back to his normal voice, as he lowers himself on the trunk next to her.

She makes a sound that could have been a chuckle in a better universe. It dies quickly.

“I’m just tired of fucking things up,” she mutters, stretching her fingers long and taut in powerless fury. A few sparks flicker around them, then her hand goes limp and curls back over her lips.

“You can’t be serious,” Steve bursts out, angrier than he means to. He fights the urge to grab her shoulder and shake it. Instead, he huffs, then makes sure every part of his face does its own equivalent of a huff. When he runs out of face, he resorts to using his voice again. “Wanda, you literally saved the day,” he tells her, as earnestly as he can. It’s the truth, and he’s making her see it whether she wants it or not. “You saved my life after I almost got you killed. And the jet? We would’ve been sitting ducks without you. You’re a hero, Wanda.” He leans forward, trying to catch her eyes. She lets him, a little bit. “And did you forget? This whole debacle is entirely on me. We wouldn’t even still be here if I weren’t...” He stops, tripping over the familiarity of the situation.

“A sixteen-year-old kid in Brooklyn?” she asks, a smug smile momentarily taking over the lost look on her face.

“Why is _that_ the thing you remember?!”

“I like tragic stories about star-crossed lovers,” she says, the accented ‘r’s rolling off her tongue heavy and loaded.

“What? We’re not… That’s not… It’s…” It’s not like that at all. Maybe some of it. Maybe it’s totally like that, just not the plural part, and why is it everyone’s business all of a sudden. Can’t a guy do his pining in private anymore. Yes, screwing the CIA and starting an international conflict counts as private, fuck you all very much. His pining, his rules. No need to peer into his face like that, Wanda. At least she’s not giggling. On the contrary, she looks very intent and serious. Wait. “Are you trying to read my mind?!”

“Don’t need to.” She turns back to watching her knees. Her fingers stop mangling her phone, then she drops her right hand from her face to cradle the little device in her lap.

Ah. Right.

“I know how you feel,” she says, and one corner of her mouth tips upwards. The other stays pointing down. “Your body in one place, your mind, thousands of miles away. Makes you blind. Makes you stupid.”

Away with the secrets, then. Putting up a one-sided smile of his own, Steve nods at her phone.

“The backdoor?” he asks, as subtle as a Mjolnir to one’s face. Or a vibranium shield to one’s throat.

Or a metal arm straight to one’s heart. Take your pick.

The question startles Wanda into a quick laugh.

“Perhaps you are not as slow as people say, Captain,” she tells him with an appreciative purse to her lips.

“Oh?” He crosses his arms on his chest. “People say I’m slow?”

She gives him an eloquent shrug.

“I want names, Wanda.”

He watches the smile fade from her face. Damn. What did he say wrong now.

“We all want a lot of different things,” Wanda says at length, voice low and gravelly, the lost look back in full force. Absently, she flexes a couple of her fingers and red light streams from them, picks up a few rocks from the ground, lifts them to float in front of her—grey, irregular-shaped, harmless unless you can throw them really hard and know where to strike. Pushed by the invisible tendrils, the rocks circle around each other languidly, spin in the air, knock gently against each other. A simple dance, if you don’t count the against-the-laws-of-nature part.

Steve, for one, stopped counting that one a long time ago. He wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror otherwise.

That, and the whole bringing-certain-not-boyfriends-back-from-the-dead argument. Exceptionally persuasive.

Wanda, however, doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“What if I told you,” she begins, distant and private at the same time, like she’s sharing a secret she never wanted to have, “that I can feel him? Wherever I am. Wherever he is.”

Oh yes, absolutely, tell Steve all about it. Because he doesn’t know the first thing about _that_.

“But,” she continues, before he can come up with more sarcastic remarks to hold back, “it might be just the Mind Stone. Alien trickery messing with my head, and there is no way for me—or him—to know for sure.”

Yeah, well. That’s what you get when you let German scientists experiment on you.

Her eyes are on him, as he places his hands on his knees, palms up, studying his own skin. What can he tell her. How can he. The rocks have stopped dancing and are rotating slowly in the air next to Wanda’s face. Without thinking, he stretches a hand to pluck one of them out of the spell. The tendrils give way. He rolls the rock to the center of his palm. Closes his fist. Applies pressure. The rock crumbles in his hand with an abrupt crunch, grey specks flying out through the cracks between his fingers. He unfolds the fist and shakes off the dust.

Wanda’s face is unreadable.

“Do you—” her voice dips, then picks up again, “—know where you end and the serum begins?”

It’s a question he’s asked himself more than once. On pier 13 in Brooklyn, 1943, standing over the body of a Hydra agent, under the barrage of disbelieving looks, his own included. Jumping over the roaring flame in the soon-to-be-ruins of Schmidt’s base in Austria, where it could have been the chemicals in his cells that carried him to the other side—or the ring of Bucky’s voice in his ears. He asked himself this question when driving the Valkyrie into the frozen ocean, wondering if the steadiness of his hands on the yoke was borrowed or his own. He asked it when he woke up a few weeks later seventy years forward in time, unsure whose life he was living or who even was living that life. And then, there was a helicarrier falling out of the sky, and a battle that the serum could win but only he could stop.

It’s a question he already knows the answer to.

“I don’t think I end anywhere,” he says. She blinks at him, a hint of a frown across her forehead. He spreads his hands on his knees, wiggles his fingers, flashes her a smile. “It’s all me. Because that’s what you do, right?” She tilts her head, confused. He closes his hands into fists as if grasping the air in front of him and pulling it toward his chest. “Whatever they give you, you take it. You take it and you make it yours. Make it you. The good, the bad,” he nods at the rocks held in the air by red sparks, “and the magic.”

“The magic,” Wanda echoes, then drops the rocks into her hand, tracing their rough edges with her fingers, rolling them around her palm, feeling the hard surfaces, how their temperature must be rising to match her skin.

Steve isn’t done yet. He clears his throat, ignores the prickling in his ears as he presses on.

“And that thing you said. About feeling him.” The warm fuzziness in your chest, the bright golden light glowing behind your eyes, illuminating your dreams, stealing the weight out of your limbs, chasing the weariness out of your bones. The tickle in the balls of your feet, the itch on the skin of your cheeks, the heat in the pit of your stomach. It may not be the same, of course. It can be different for her. It’s different for everyone, but. “I don’t think it’s just the Mind Stone.”

Her cheeks are a delightful shade of pink. He hopes his are at least close to that and not the hideous beet and tomato salad of blotches as certain jerks loved to describe them so many years before.

“Thank you, Captain,” Wanda says, and her lips are almost a smile. Even if she doesn’t look quite found, she certainly doesn’t look lost anymore.

“So.” Steve claps his hands on his thighs and grins at her. “Nat says you know how to fix the wing.”

She grins back and taps her phone to her chin.

“I just might.”

~

“Rogers. Wanda.”

“Almost done here, Nat. Just two more seams to fix the plating.”

“Doesn’t matter. Pack up everything and get inside.”

“Something up?”

“They’re sending in helicopters.”

“What.”

“Helicopters. You know. Cute, chubby. Have blades. Buzz a lot. Sometimes come with very annoying people inside them.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, they’ve managed to make a connection between sighting Wanda around Brașov and finding a bunch of Hydra thugs tied up in a forest just half a country away. They are sweeping the woods now.”

“Wanda, how about…” He pretends to swat at very huge flies up above him.

“No.”

“But you didn’t even…”

“No.”

“But.”

“Pack up your tent and get the fuck into the jet, Steve. You have eight minutes before they buzz right over us. _We_ have eight minutes.”

His reflexes kick in at that, switching his brain into battle mode. It takes him under a second to run through the available options, mostly because there are so few of those. In fact, their only chance is—

“Cloaking system?”

Nat glances at the almost patched-up wing.

“It’ll hold. But only if we sit still. Very very still.”

Which is something Steve is so so good at.


	8. Cloudy With a Chance of SWAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck the ‘delete’ button.

_steve steve steve steve steve_

_GOATS_

_steeb goats goats steeb G O A T S_

_no srsly steve fuckin GOATS_

_GOATS r GOAT_

_i mean_

_rfgurefggdw t hjk tdd fcc cbc_

_(that was goat)_

_sksksksksksksksksk_

_(that was me)_

_t-man says i cant send u pics so tough luck ur loss_

_well u’ll see em when u come ere_

_u comin right_

_come to the dark side we have goats_

_jk_

_we do have goats tho_

_GOATS_

Steve keeps blinking at his phone long after the messages are all gone from the screen.

What. Was. That.

Also. _T-man_?!!

~

“Why do you have Twitter and I can’t send pictures to Bucky. And don’t say ‘security reasons’ again. Doesn’t have to be pictures with faces or anything.”

“Whoa, am I hearing this right? Is Captain McSainty talking dick pics?”

“What? Sam! How do you. Why would I even. Jesus. Just. _No_.” Maybe he should take to dipping Sam into freezing water on a bi-weekly basis. Grumpy Sam is so much better than funny Sam.

“You done?” Nat asks dryly, not deigning to so much as twitch an eyelid at either of them.

“No, I’m very much interested in what pictures our dear Most Prudish Cap of The Year is planning on sending his boyfriend.”

“I don’t see how you’re a part of this conversation. You aren’t. Please shut up.”

“Nat, Cap’s being a meanie.”

“Nat, Sam’s being ridiculous.”

“Wanda, can you come over please? I just miss talking to an adult. Let’s discuss the weather, shall we?”

“I’d say cloudy with a chance of SWAT,” Wanda calls from where she’s draped across the seats in the passenger bay.

Nat checks her screen. “Sounds about right, yeah.”

Shifting closer, Steve tilts his body until his face slides into Nat’s view, poking through the hovering screen.

“I’m not sure if the beard helps the sad puppy eyes or not,” Nat muses, unimpressed, then swipes at the screen as she pretends to read the glowing lines and signs right over Steve’s nose.

He cranks up the puppiness.

“Okay, okay!” Nat throws her hands up in defeat. Steve suppresses a smirk. He’d had enough practice to hone his disconsolate jack russell routine with Bucky, back when he spent half his time convincing his overprotective friend that he wasn’t too sick for a trip to Coney, a run to the market, or a simple goddamn walk. No reason for it to work any worse with the added bulk of supersoldier golden retriever. “You can’t send pictures because your phone is hooked up to the emergency link, which only supports texting. I, on the other hand, enjoy the full features of the best Wakandan Satellites.”

“Okay.” This almost makes sense, except where it doesn’t. “Why?”

“Because I’m the person who’s trying to keep us out of jail. You’re usually doing the opposite.”

Hm. Well, maybe it does make sense. Still.

“I don’t need the full features,” he mumbles, drawing back upright. “Just. Bucky.”

“I’m sorry, Steve, we didn’t realize you’d need twenty-four/seven audiovisual connection to your boyfriend when we were setting up the comms with T’Challa. And Barnes was kinda incommunicado, too.”

“Why were you setting up the comms with T’Challa?”

“Remember how it was his fault I had to go on the run? So did he.” Nat lifts an eyebrow at Steve. “Where did you think your phone came from?”

He’s not going to admit he didn’t really think anything when Nat showed up bristling with spy-grade hardware and delivering miles of brain-boiling instructions. He just figured it was Nat being, well, Nat.

Still doesn’t explain why he wasn’t included.

“Wait, and where was I?”

“Let me see. About to botch up the ballsiest prison break of the century. Making things worse, not giving a damn about security. Just your usual stuff.”

You don’t really have to be right every time, Nat.

His mind rewinds to the “texting only” part.

“I can’t make phone calls?” he asks dumbly and watches Nat tip her chin to her left shoulder, then to her right one in an atrociously deliberate headshake. “What if Tony needs me? I told him I’d be there.”

Nat massages her temples. “You’re not very smart, are you, Rogers?”

“You gave me a phone. My understanding was that phone calls are kind of a default setting for a phone.”

“Well, you were wrong. Please refrain from understanding things on your own in the future, okay? I’m sure you can talk this over with the King when we get there. I can even choose some memes for you, I know what he likes.” Steve still doesn’t know what a meme is. At this point, he’s afraid to ask. “In the meantime, I bet that Tony can find his way around any tech issue if he needs to. And you,” she waves a hand at him dismissively, “feel free to text the shit out of your emergency link while I keep keeping us on the right side of the bars.”

Not like there’s much else for him to do. Just one thing, maybe.

“Hey. Guys,” he says, raising his voice so it reaches everyone on the jet. Three pairs of eyes set on him, puzzled. He runs his hand through his hair, then says, firm and serious, “I’d really appreciate it if you stopped calling Bucky my boyfriend.”

The silence is deafening. Then they all start talking at once.

“He seriously—”

“Captain, are you—”

“Oh god, Rogers—”

“Fine!” he snaps, not willing to let any of them finish. “Fine. Nevermind.”

Avoiding people while they’re all stuck together inside a not-quite-that-roomy jet is a difficult task, but Steve Rogers has never been one to back away from a challenge.

~

_Hi Buck. We’re still laying low, can’t do much else right now. It’s driving me crazy, to be honest. I hate waiting. I don’t even know what we are waiting for. They should have called the helicopters away a long time ago, per standard procedure. I guess standard procedures don’t really apply when you fuck things up on this scale. But I don’t regret anything. You asked me before, and here’s my answer. You’re worth it. All of it. Don’t ever doubt that. Don’t you dare, Buck. You’re worth everything. Actually, nothing is worth you, that’s it, I’m saying it. You’re a standard the world can only hope to ever meet._

Cramped in the cargo section, tetrising his body to fit into the spaces between their packed tents and supplies, Steve finds he doesn’t care. He’s done rewriting his sentences, taking his words back, trampling down his own self. If the last few months of hiding from everyone and their dog have taught him anything, it’s that he hates hiding. Nat can mock his undercover skills all she wants, but Steve Rogers does not hide. He’s kept his heart under lock and key for too long, compensating by being large and loud in every other respect, doing right by the universe when he couldn’t let himself do right by himself.

This is his last secret. Probably, the only real secret he’s been keeping all along. He’s already spilled all the others, and there’s nothing else for him to do now but come clean to Bucky, so why the hell not. He feels the forgotten lightness of intoxication take over his head, and he doesn’t mind. What does he have to lose, anyway. He types on.

_I’m not sure I’ve ever told you, so I’ll tell you now. Bucky, you’re the best person I’ve ever known. I’m pretty confident you’re the best person to have ever existed. If there was a purpose to creating this universe, it was to have you in it, and don’t even try to prove me wrong. I know this. I’ve known this since before I met you. I’ve probably known this since before I was born._

His chest is too small for all the words crashing into each other under his ribs. He sucks in a deep breath. Keeps typing.

_Have you ever seen yourself smile? It’s like watching the sun rise for the first time over the chaos of a newborn world. It’s the birth of all hope. It’s the beginning of light. It’s how the word ‘beautiful’ was invented. To capture it, in pencil or ink, has been the greatest privilege of my life, and I don’t think I’ve ever done you justice, because, really, how could anyone?_

There’s a huge hot emptiness pressing at his eyes from inside his skull, and a giddy vehemence urging his fingers to fly faster, blissful and frenzied, over the stupid tiny keys of the on-screen keyboard, and he doesn’t know where he’s going with all this, just that he has to keep going, has to get there, wherever it is.

_I’m being selfish, telling you all this, over a goddamn text, no less. Cowardly even. But take me up on this, Buck. Take me up on all of this. I’ll repeat every word to you, swear by every single one, and if you don’t want to see me after it, that’s okay. Whatever you want is okay. I just can’t keep silent anymore. I don’t want to keep silent anymore. So, here it is. Here I am. As I’ve always been. Looking at you like you’re the center of the fucking universe. Because, you know what, Buck? You are._

He is. He is he is he is he is.

_And please don’t feel like you have to reply. I just wanted you to know. In case you don’t already. And if you ever forget, I’ll be there to tell you all over again. I’ll be there, Buck, no matter how many times I have to say this, I will, and I won’t ever stop. Been there, done that, will do again anytime. Think what you want about me, call me a moron, tell me to leave you alone, tell me to get lost, send me away, turn your back, but believe me, please. It’s the only thing I ask of you. I mean it. I mean it all._

Steve hits send before the brain part of his brain can catch up. All the blood evaporates from his body, leaving him weightless and insubstantial, a papery husk, ready to crumple at the slightest touch. What is he doing. What has he done.

It’s four in the morning in Romania, which means it’s three in Wakanda, and Bucky must be sleeping, should be sleeping, and Steve said he didn’t need a reply, which is true, he doesn’t, never did, would never insist. He wants to drop the phone, put it away, maybe even close his eyes, dream his way through the night, but he and his body exist on different planes now and he can’t move a muscle.

Not until his phone pings, shrill in the relative silence of the jet.

Very distantly, Steve is aware of the hard cloth of his uniform pants against his legs, the soft cotton of his t-shirt stretching over his back, the little regular beeps from Nat’s makeshift war room, the stale smell of a space that’s had too many people in it for too long. Somewhere in between those pieces of information, meaningless and unimportant, a world away from him, there is his finger, it touches the sleek cold screen of his phone, the message opens, and his eyes read:

_tldr_

For two complete seconds he honestly struggles to decipher this on his own. Three seconds later, he’s looming over Nat where she’s snoozing in the pilot seat with her legs on the dashboard.

“Nat,” he says. He doesn’t recognize his voice.

Her eyes fly open, then instantly squeeze shut as the glare from Steve’s phone hits them.

“Ouch, Rogers.”

“What does this mean.”

She unsqueezes one eye wide enough to read the message. The ‘oh-my-god’ on her face is powerful but not alarmed. She swats at Steve, and he retracts his hand with the phone, leaning backwards to settle against the dashboard and give Nat some space.

“This stands for ‘too long, didn’t read’,” she begins, in a drone that is equal parts patient and detached. “Usually people use it to say that the text was too boring to be worth reading. Or,” her voice picks up, animated with a new idea, before Steve’s heart can process the explanation and throw itself into the nearest iceberg, “Barnes may actually mean it literally. If the text was too long, he might not have had the time to finish it. You both got only fifteen seconds to read a message, remember?”

Shit.

He thought that modern telecoms magic could break long messages down into smaller ones, but he must have gotten it wrong. Nat’s right, he shouldn’t try to understand all this some-kind-of-electricity stuff on his own.

Except that this stuff is the only thing connecting him to Bucky at this particular point in time.

“What did you send him?” Nat asks with a casual, almost polite curiosity. “Oh my god, wait,” her face lights up in excitement, losing the last traces of drowsiness, “did you write Barnes a _love letter_?”

All the blood that left Steve a few minutes before comes rushing back, hitting his skin with the force of a whole-ass tsunami of awkwardness. His eyeballs are probably blushing, too.

“Oh fuck, Steve.” Nat switches from teasing to sympathetic in an instant. “You really did, didn’t you?”

“Wasn’t exactly a _love_ letter,” he mutters. He didn't use the L word, after all. The buttons and switches on the dashboard dig into his thighs, but he doesn’t trust himself to stand upright on his own.

Nat looks him over, lips pursed. “Sure.” She swivels in her seat and brings her screen up. “Wanna watch some helicopters with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

~

_Sorry, Buck, I got a bit carried away. I just wanted to say I miss you. A lot._

_mood_

“Nat.”

“He’s saying he feels the same.”

“Oh.”

_Why are you up? It’s pretty late, isn’t it? Everything okay?_

_just vibin_

“Nat.”

“He’s not doing anything in particular. In a good way.”

“Ah.”

_Shouldn’t you be resting? Rest is important._

_facts_

He turns his phone to Nat.

“He’s agreeing with you. Wholeheartedly.”

“Hm.”

_You aren’t going to sleep any time soon, are you?_

_nope_

He remembers this about Bucky. From the innocent sleepovers of their childhood, Bucky’s worried night watches at Steve’s sickbed, Bucky’s countless fuck-it-I’m-crashing-with-you’s after a long night out when he insisted on escorting Steve home lest the damn punk manages to pick another fight on the way, and then refused to walk back to his place. Steve would wake up, then notice the glint of Bucky’s eyes in the inky darkness, watching him, somehow soft and intense at the same time. It would make Steve’s skin hum and tingle. 

“Why’re you up?” he’d slur.

Bucky’d shrug. “Can’t go back to sleep,” he’d say. “”S okay. You should, though. Rest is important.”

“Nah,” Steve’d say. Bucky’d nod, and ruffle his hair, and they’d talk, the night condensing until the only thing left in the world was the two of them, the gentle rustle of their voices, the silvery shapes of their bodies, suspended in the timelessness of insomnia, the careful inches between them dreamlike and unreal.

Dozing off the entire next day was a small price to pay for that.

And it’s not like he has any big plans for tomorrow this time.

_Hey, wanna know something fun about Sam?_

_spill the tea_

He slides off the dashboard and moves to lean against Nat’s seat, angling his phone so it stays permanently in view for both of them.

“It means he wants you to proceed with disclosing highly embarrassing information about this person you both know because you don’t have anything better to do with your lives.”

“Really?”

“That was the short answer.”

“Um. Okay.”

_He snores like a baby. I’m serious. With a pearly little trill at the end. It’s hilarious._

_lol_

“It means—”

“I understood that one!”

“Oh well, good for you. Did I teach you that?”

“No. I think it was Tony. He actually says it out loud when speaking, for God’s sake.”

“I’m surprised you can make out individual words when that man talks.”

“The benefits of enhanced hearing.”

“Right. Benefits.”

A highly arguable assessment, Steve grants her that.

_It’s also very annoying, and if I have to spend another night with him in close quarters, I might go back to our little talk about dealing with the insufferable. You still with me on that?_

_totes_

“For the life of me, I can’t understand why he keeps talking about shopping bags.”

“What?”

He points at the screen. It takes Nat a few seconds to process what she’s seeing. She doesn’t look overly pleased with the results.

“Господиблядь,” she says and slaps a hand to her forehead, then drags it slowly down, pulling one half of her face into an exasperated grimace. “Steve, that’s not… Honestly, I don’t know which one of you is worse here. Both. You’re both worse. Congratulations.” She shakes her head a few times, muttering, “Пиздец вы дебилы,” which sounds offensive but also weirdly fond.

When Nat starts cursing in Russian, the best course of action is to stay absolutely still and wait it out. Steve does exactly that, for once choosing the best course of action instead of his usual punch-it-till-you-make-it approach, which works as good as it rhymes.

“What happened to just watching the helicopters, huh?” Nat asks after a long sigh. Rhetorically, Steve assumes. “Helicopters are good. They just hover there. Maybe try to arrest you. Or kill you. But that’s that. They don’t talk. They don’t text. They don’t act as unbelievable idiots. Look at them. Look. Huh.”

“What am I looking at?”

“Nothing. They’re gone. The helicopters are gone, Steve.”

“Huh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I actually bumped my nose into my phone several times to produce the goat message. You’re welcome.  
> 2\. Nat says “Gospodiblyad’” [“Jesusfuck”] and “Pizdec vy debily” [“You fucking morons”], which are, incidentally, the two phrases that I yell at my screen most often when writing these two superidiots.


	9. A National Icon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help comes from an unexpected ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your loveliest comments! Y’all are extremely kind and comments give me life, I love every single one of them. <3 <3 <3

“No, wait, don’t wake her up.”

“But the wing.”

“It’s dark outside anyway.”

“Enhanced eyes, Nat. I can see in the dark okay. Fuck it, I’ll just do it myself.”

“Sit the fuck down. We don’t even know why they’re gone. Could mean a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe they’re sending in tanks now?”

That… would be a problem. He doesn’t exactly want to hurt people who are just doing their job. Even if their job is to keep him away from Bucky. He might want to hurt them a little. Anyone who keeps Steve from Bucky’s side is a villain and a scoundrel and should be destroyed. Or at least moved out of the way.

Nat snaps her fingers in front of his nose, jerking him out of his simmering. “Just sit tight for a moment, okay? Play solitaire or something. Write Barnes another letter. Draw a dick on Sam’s face. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Steve considers his options.

“You have a magic marker on you?”

~

By the time Wanda is awake enough to finish up with the repairs, Steve has paced every inch of the jet more times than he cares to count. Nat turns off the cloaking system and lets them get outside, her expression thoughtful in a way that makes Steve’s skin tighten uneasily. He and Wanda work quickly and efficiently, despite Wanda’s constant glancing up at the sky. Steve can’t help but steal a few looks upwards as well. The only things he sees are white smudges of clouds over the steely blueness.

When they get back into the jet, they find Sam sitting in the co-pilot seat, fiddling with the controls, with Nat hanging over his shoulder. She looks up at them. There’s an uncertain smile roaming around her face, like it doesn’t know where to settle.

Nat being uncertain might be the scariest thing Steve has ever seen. He braces himself.

“What did you find out?” he asks.

“The most curious thing,” Nat replies readily. She straightens up and leans against the back of the pilot seat, folding her arms over her chest. “The Security Council called a certain consultant.” Steve reads the name she’s not saying in her eyes and feels his jaw stiffen. “He didn’t pick up the phone, obviously, but after a weekful of voicemails, he did send a message back.” Tapping one of the beads on her arm, she brings up a smaller version of her screen with a few glowing buttons. She taps one of those, and a voice fills all the space in the jet in a swirl of words.

_“Oh hello there, Secretary, I hear you lost a puppy or something? Blond, huge, no collar, will bite your face off if you touch his favorite toy?”_ Steve missed this voice. _“Okay, I may have something for you. Firstly, what are you doing looking for them in the fucking woods? That spandexed ass is too pampered to schlep about in some godawful wilderness Rambo-style.”_ Steve also missed not understanding half of what this voice says. _“You saw how much fuel the girl was hauling. That’s almost enough for a half-round-trip around the Earth, trust me, I built that thing. The jet, not the Earth. Though I see how you could get confused, LOL.”_ There it is, just like Steve said. _“They must be already in some fucking Philippines, sipping cocktails and laughing at your stupid mugs, which, by the way, is exactly what I’m doing right now, so, toodle-oo. Poop emoji, palm emoji, coconut emoji, sunglasses emoji, Stark emoji… what do you mean, there’s none? Pepper! Pep, we need someone on this ASAP. Pepper, you with me? Are you listen—?”_ The voice cuts off. Nat taps another button, and the screen disappears.

So, Tony made up with Pepper. That’s great news. As for the rest, well.

Everyone on the jet goes through a round of blinking. Then Sam whistles and claps his hands. Wanda opens her mouth, closes it, shifts her weight. Nat’s eyes are fixed on Steve’s. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. A hard ring snaps around his throat, and he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Nothing in that message makes any sense.

“My ass isn’t pampered,” he manages, latching at the only thing that is at least a familiar kind of absurd.

The smile finds its way to the corners of Nat’s eyes.

“I’m sure Tony is well aware of that,” she says.

“We’re literally schlepping about in some godawful wilderness,” Steve continues, dumbfounded.

“Tony may or may not be aware of that,” Nat grants. “Tony also most certainly has the tools to bypass his own stealth tech.”

Steve’s neck has all the plasticity of a hundred-year-old redwood tree, so he turns his entire body towards Wanda. She shakes her head. No backdoors involved, then. Just Stark. Abruptly, Steve digs out his phone. No new messages. No old ones, either, not even disappeared ones. A number with no history. A clean slate.

“Steve,” Nat calls, and he sees the smile reach her lips. “He may not be ready to be your friend again, but he sure as hell isn’t your enemy.”

No, he is not. Whatever they are to each other, whatever they’ve become to each other, whatever they’ve said or done, ‘enemies’ is not the word for them. Steve has promised Stark he’d be there for him, and all Stark had to do was ask. Turns out, Steve didn’t even have to ask. The ring around his throat tightens, then breaks.

“So… that’s it?” he asks through the daze in his head.

Nat nods. “The cloaking system will hold up when we move, now that the integrity has been fully restored.”

Everything is in order then. Why does it feel so strange.

“We’re clear to go?”

“As long as we don’t go to some fucking Philippines.” Nat’s voice is bright, and there’s a dimple on her left cheek.

“Aw shoot,” Sam pipes in with a mock-rueful chuckle. “And here I was dreaming about them coconuts.”

“They have coconuts in Wakanda,” Nat assures him, and Sam hoots, rubbing his hands. “But you’ll have to remember to be nice to the King.”

“That’s one hard bargain you’re driving, ma’am.” They stare at each other for a couple of seconds until Sam throws his hands up, then places his right one over his heart. “I’ll be on my best behavior, that’s a promise.” After Nat gives him a satisfied nod, Sam throws a pointed look at Steve. “What are we waiting for then? Cap? You keep standing there like a rock, I’m gonna think you’re less excited about seeing your boyfriend than I’m about coconuts.”

Steve makes a tentative step forward. His center of gravity seems to be running in circles.

“Just like this?” He makes another step, as wobbly as his voice.” “We can go?” Another one. “No final fight?” He trips, frowns at the floor, rights himself, frowns at Nat.

Nat’s eye-roll is not as ruthless when she has dimples all over her face. “Of course you’d like a fight,” she says, with the most unconvincing scowl he has seen her make. “But no, Steve. No final fight this time.”

He doesn’t realize he’s standing in the pilot section until Sam reaches out and rests his hand on Steve’s elbow.

“It’s okay, Cap. Sometimes all you have to do is just sit tight and let a friend help.” Sam squeezes Steve’s arm. His grin has no trace of teasing to it.

Steve hears a click behind him and looks over his shoulder to see Wanda diligently strapping herself into her seat in the passenger bay. She cocks her head at him, encouraging.

“Give the order, Captain,” she says.

“I thought Nat was in charge,” Steve says, and feels his head start clearing.

“Off we go then,” Nat chirps and slides into the pilot seat.

As she and Sam flick their switches and set up their displays, Steve settles on Nat’s right, gripping the overhead handle. He still has Stark’s contact open on his phone. Hitting the new message button, he types two words and sends them.

_Thank you._

There, the first notch on that clean slate of theirs. Doesn’t matter when the next one is made or who makes it. Steve can wait. He might even be able to sit tight now, for as long as necessary.

What do you know, Buck. Sometimes it really doesn’t have to end in a fight.

“By the way, Sam,” Wanda says over the hum of the engines starting. “You should probably, um, use this.” She digs a pocket mirror out of her jacket and floats it across the jet until it hovers in front of Sam’s face.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, making the magic marker dick on his forehead wrinkle hilariously.

“What the... Cap!!!”

“It was Nat’s idea!”

“Traitor.”

They lift up in the air propelled by the most cutting-edge Stark Industries tech and the sheer power of Sam Wilson’s apparently infinite supply of profanity.

~

_BUCK WE’RE COMING ETA 2 H 30 MIN_

_YEET_

“Nat.”

“Bit busy piloting, Rogers.”

“ _Nat._ ”

“Ugh, damn you, okay, show me. What the fuck.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, he’s excited. Possibly happy. Or scared. Or angry. It’s hard to tell exactly. He’s having a strong emotion, I don’t know. Maybe throwing something. Sam! How would you explain to Cap here what ‘yeet’ means?”

“I’d say it means Cap’s dating a teenager.”

Every word of that sentence is several shades of wrong. But right now, Steve has a more pressing issue staring him in the face. He turns to Nat and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“When we land, you’re coming with me as an interpreter.”

Nat removes Steve’s hand from her shoulder. “I’m not coming with you as an interpreter.”

Well, it was worth a try.

“Stay strong, Rogers,” Sam instructs Steve with infuriating seriousness. “It’s just your boyfriend.”

The amount of giggling happening around Steve is definitely too much for one jet.

“That’s it, I’m texting the King.”

“What do you expect him to do?”

“I don’t know, rein his sister in somehow? Give her a stern talking-to? Cut off her internet?”

“Good luck with that, Rogers.”

He types furiously.

_Your Highness. Is everything alright there? Your sister’s treatment seems to be affecting Bucky in a somewhat unanticipated way. I cannot understand half the words he’s saying. What is going on?_

The reply is swift and brutal.

_Dear Captain. I am shooketh. Wokeanda 4ever._

“Steve, I can’t see the display behind your… Oh.”

Dammit.

“Sam, maybe you should take over. I think Nat’s having a heart attack.”

~

Steve’s boots hit the ground before the ramp does. He hears Sam mutter something about eager beavers behind his back. Fuck Sam. Steve’s waited twenty-eight days and a half for this. He’s not waiting a minute longer.

“Where is he?” he blurts out, crossing the landing site in a few long strides.

“Good to see you too, Captain,” the King says calmly and stretches his hand out. Behind him, Shuri giggles, doing something with a string of beads on her wrist that look similar to the ones Nat uses for her all-in-one screen. Huh, so that’s another mystery solved.

But more importantly, why is Shuri aiming her screen at him like she’s taking a picture.

“Bucky’s gonna love this,” she mutters.

Okay, whatever, Steve can spare five minutes on pleasantries. He owes the King and the Princess as much. But not more. Not a damn second more.

He shakes the King’s hand.

“Thank you for having us.” He dredges up a polite smile, which is instantly spoiled by the anxious twitching at the edges.

“My pleasure,” T’Challa nods princely. “My security,” he jerks his chin at a very fierce woman in gold and red simpering next to him, “demands that I ask you if you are still planning on shooting me.”

Oh God damn it.

“I, uh, I’m sorry for that outburst. All the outbursts.”

“No hard feelings, Captain. It was quite understandable.” The King’s own lips are now twitching with restrained laughter. “Where the heart is aching, a sound mind is hard to find.”

Fuck the King too.

Nat catches up and pulls the King into a tight hug. “Don’t keep him too long, he’s gonna burst,” she stage-whispers into the King’s ear.

And fuck Nat.

“You shoulda seen him these past few weeks, ‘twas a fucking nightmare,” Sam contributes, stopping next to Steve and waiting for Nat to release the King for a proper greeting.

Double-fuck Sam.

“Birdguy,” T’Challa says, deadpan, as he offers Sam his hand. “Nice body art.” He nods at Sam’s desecrated forehead.

“Thought it was appropriate,” Sam replies over the handshake, then adds, solemn and dignified, “Catdude.”

What is their problem.

Wanda clears her throat. Oh great, now they have to do awkward introductions. Do they really need him for this part. Can he go. Is Shuri recording the whole thing. Why is her screen pointed at his face. What exactly is Shuri recording.

“I don’t believe we’ve met properly,” Wanda says, stepping forward. “Wanda Maximoff.”

“I know who you are,” the King says, and she tenses at that, but the King’s smile is warm when he treats her to her dose of royal handshaking. “Welcome to Wakanda. Just don’t throw me into anything again, if you would be so kind.”

“As long as you don’t throw me into any jails.”

“It is a deal.”

Are they done now. Please be done now.

“How was your flight?” the King addresses the group at large.

Oh fuck no.

They all snicker.

Shuri’s screen disappears as she doubles over. “You should’ve seen your face, Captain,” she howls, clutching at her stomach.

At least she’s stopped recording. He doesn’t want to think about what she plans to do with the video.

“You are all invited to lunch at the Palace,” the King announces, then turns to Steve and places a hand on his shoulder before Steve can prove Nat’s earlier conjecture right. “Captain, you might be interested in checking out that hoverbike.” He points to a sleek silvery thing parked at the edge of the landing site. “The navigation system already has the route planned. Do you know how to ride it?”

For God’s sake. He’d ride a rabid dinosaur from outer space if it took him to Bucky. Just let him go already.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shuri calls, seemingly over her laughing fit. “I’ve put the bike in the training wheels mode.” A few giggles escape between her words.

“I was not aware such a thing existed,” the King says dryly.

Shuri winks at Steve. “A special treat for a special friend. Go, Captain. He’s waiting for you.”

It’s all the permission Steve needs.

“Don’t wait up,” he throws over his shoulder as he puts his hands on the handlebars.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nat says.

“Good luck,” Wanda says.

“Tell your boyfriend I hate him back,” Sam says.

Triple-fuck Sam.

“Did Captain America just flip you off?” Shuri asks, awed.

“That man is not a good role model, little sister.”

“He’s a national icon!”

“And look at that nation.”

Steve lets their voices fade away, droned out by the rhythmic purr of the hoverbike, which seems to respond more to thought than touch. The air in Wakanda smells of grass and metal, and it takes Steve’s breath away as he zooms through it, his heart a steady drumroll in his ears.

If the digital map on the hoverbike’s display is anything to go by, Steve has approximately thirty-two minutes and fourteen seconds until his life can begin anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my strongest conviction that Tony will always have Steve’s back when it matters.


	10. I Always Recognize You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are the sweetest nectar to my heart and I love each and every one of them very dearly!

**Part II. Presence Makes The Heart A Happy Place**

There he is, right there, across the expanse of green, wrapped in a dark red tunic, leaning against a huge tree, one leg up the trunk, his right hand holding a phone up to his face—his face—a blue scarf draped around his left shoulder, his eyes watching something intently on the phone screen—his eyes—a crinkle over the bridge of his nose, a wavy line of his mouth, a lip bitten, holding back, not pain, Steve hopes, no, look at his eyes—his eyes—his eyes oh dear god, they’re sparkling. He’s so close and so far away, and Steve’s running, he’s outright running, where is your dignity, Rogers, what does that word even mean. His feet barely touch the ground, everything is shaking, and everything is completely still. He can’t run fast enough.

In his mind, he’s dropping to his knees, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s legs, hiding in the steady softness of Bucky’s thighs, dragging him down, holding him close, touching his lips to every inch of skin he can reach, breathing him, living him, going mad and saner than he ever was. In his body, he skids to a sharp stop whole five feet away, almost toppling over but keeping his balance, through sheer training, enhanced reflexes, god’s grace or devil’s curse, whichever is responsible for the everpresent distance between the two of them.

Damn his friends and their dumb jokes. He almost forgot.

Not his boyfriend.

Catching his breath is quite a feat, for too many reasons, so his first attempt at a greeting comes out as a clusterfuck of wheezy consonants and a few squeaky vowels.

“Just a sec,” Bucky murmurs with a slight nod to his phone.

Oh. Okay. Fine. Whatever Bucky’s watching is more important than Steve, that’s nice to know, he can live with that, sure, he. His brain crashes. His heart drops out of his chest and crawls away, probably trying to dig itself into the ground. He isn’t really paying attention.

_“How was your flight?”_ , he hears the King’s voice from Bucky’s phone. So this is what Shuri did with the video. The phone bursts with a chorus of gratuitous snickering, now with Bucky’s voice added to the mix.

“Oh man, you really should’ve seen your face,” Bucky says, putting the phone away and looking up at Steve. His eyes widen. “This one’s even better, though.” He chuckles, teasing and light, and Steve’s knees turn to liquid.

He stumbles, or, more accurately, falls forward, only managing to catch himself at the last moment, so it looks like a step, even though it feels like he’s still falling.

“Hi, Steve,” Bucky says, tilting his head a little to the side.

Steve wants to slam his hand into the bark, just past Bucky’s ear, shove his body over Bucky’s, smash his lips into Bucky’s, never move again in his life.

“Hi, Buck,” he says instead, his voice covering a few octaves in the span of two syllables, and how is that even possible. Maybe it’s another side effect of the serum, enhanced capacity for total dumbassery.

Whatever his face is doing, it makes the skin around Bucky’s eyes blossom with crinkles. Steve’s heart undigs itself, leaps back into his chest and shoots straight up into his throat.

Bucky moves, smooth and fluid, and then Steve is hugging him, or maybe clutching at him, maybe crushing him like a vice, whatever. Bucky is in his arms, his arms are around Bucky, and isn’t that all that matters. It’s the first hug they share since before the ice and the death and the seven new shades of hell. Bucky’s frame is smaller without the left arm, their bodies are different, leaner, meaner, harder around the edges, and yet they lock together easily, just like they always had, two pieces of the same clay. Time and trouble may have done their damnedest to warp and mangle them, crack them open, char them brittle and dry, but they shaped each other first. No power in the universe could change that.

Breaking the hug would be a crime, punishable by an uncomfortably likely sorrowful wail, so Steve clings on. If he shifts his face just an inch, he could bury his nose in Bucky’s hair, longer now than Bucky ever wore it, gorgeous as usual. He could press his cheek to Bucky’s beard; would it be plush or scratchy or the best of both worlds, Steve wonders, will have to keep wondering, or next he’d be squashing his lips against Bucky’s neck, like the selfish oaf that he is, and he can’t have that now, can he.

Can he.

Bucky’s hand pats his back between his shoulder blades, searing his skin through all the layers of cotton and kevlar and longing. At this rate, Steve’s going to have to choose between undignified wailing and spontaneous combustion. The former is at least a threat to him only. Steeling himself, he performs the most daunting stunt of his superheroic life.

He takes a step back from Bucky.

Miraculously, no wails spill from his chest, maybe because it’s instantly paralyzed with the loss. As he focuses on restarting his voice box, his right hand darts upwards, splaying itself over Bucky’s cheek for a split second before dropping to rest on Bucky’s shoulder.

Get a fucking grip, Rogers.

Bucky gives no sign of finding anything to be out of order, and there’s a little smile playing over his lips (oh his lips), which is enough of a relief for Steve’s voice to kick in.

“How’ve you been, Buck?” he asks, absurdly proud of himself for pulling off an entire sentence without any audible incidents.

Something makes a loud bleating noise behind his back, and Bucky’s smile explodes to take over the entire lower half of his face.

“Goats,” he mouths with near-religious reverence, pointing over Steve’s shoulder.

Right. Steve remembers some goat-related messages. A few of those even had actual words in them.

In addition to insistent pointing, Bucky’s now nodding vigorously at a spot to Steve’s left. Steve turns, obligingly, letting his hand slide off Bucky and dangle forlornly against his side.

A whitish runt of a kid is standing next to his left leg, glaring at him with the force found only in animals that are at least twice smaller than their intended size. Steve finds he knows that particular glare a bit too well, although he wasn’t usually on the receiving side of it.

“It’s Steve,” Bucky says, with a fondness that sends Steve’s brain spinning.

“Hi, buddy,” he says to the kid. The goat’s glare intensifies.

“I meant the goat,” Bucky clarifies. “His name is Steve.”

The kid bleats and headbutts Steve’s shin, then sort of contorts sideways to place himself between Steve and Bucky and bleats again. Bucky crouches down to scratch the kid behind his ear, whispering something equal parts chiding and soothing.

Steve knows that tone. He knows it from backstreets, alleyways, parking lots; knows it with his bruised eyes, burst knuckles, scraped knees; knows how it can chase away pain, put out fires, mend broken bones, heal broken dreams.

What he doesn’t know is whether to feel jealous or flattered.

He glances around, notices a big brown goat grazing peacefully in the distance.

“What about that one?” he asks, pointing at it. “What’s its name?”

“Steve,” Bucky answers, without looking up from the white runt.

Hm.

“That one?” Steve asks, pointing at a menacing spotted creature engaged in a heated dispute with a wooden fence.

“Steve.” Bucky’s face is buried in white goat fur.

The spotted creature definitely has an udder.

Hmm.

“That one?” Steve points at the air above his head.

“Steve,” Bucky says. His shoulders are quivering.

What the.

“Buck. Did you name all your goats Steve?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says into the mini-goat.

Steve doesn’t feel flattered.

“Why?”

Bucky tilts his face just enough for Steve to see his eyes, glinting with glee.

“Stubborn little shits,” Bucky says, drawing back from the goat, and a tiny laugh bubbles up to his lips, curling them outward.

Steve doesn’t feel flattered at all.

That bubbly laugh, though. That was the sound of bliss as far as Steve’s concerned.

With a few more half-stifled laughs, Bucky stands up, but not before he thoroughly pets Steve’s runty namesake, fingers carding lovingly through the white fur.

Oh well, it’s official: Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain goddamn America, is jealous of a fucking goat.

“So, um,” he says, trying to ignore what he’s pretty sure is the goat equivalent of a stink-eye, “you a farmer now?” Then he bites his tongue. Great, Rogers, a perfect question to ask someone whose most recent occupations include a brainwashed murder weapon, a terror suspect, and a lab icicle.

Bucky shakes his head, unperturbed. “Nah,” he says, “not really.” His words draw out lazy and comfortable, so Steve lets himself breathe a little. “City boy, y’know,” Steve does, “kinda lucky I can tell the front from the rear with these guys.”

“Could be awkward,” Steve nods like he has the faintest idea what he’s talking about, “shoving a carrot up the wrong end.”

It takes all Steve’s expertise in Bucky’s face to notice how one of his eyebrows arches slightly, the beginning of a question mark, though he can’t read the question itself. He might have an inkling, seeing that this expression usually comes after some of Steve’s more profoundly stupid remarks.

Come on, Rogers. Engage your brain cells.

“They eat carrots, right?” he asks. The arch gets more pronounced. Not that, huh. “Sorry, Buck, I don’t know the first thing about goats.” Brain cells not found.

The arch drops from Bucky’s eyebrow and travels to the edge of his mouth. It’s a far cry from a smile, but Steve’s taking it.

“Well, it’s mostly making sure that some Steve doesn’t fuck things up too much.” Bucky rolls his shoulders. “Think I know a thing or two about that.”

Doesn’t he.

“More like you’re the world’s leading expert in the field,” Steve hears himself saying.

“If you say so,” Bucky says, and there, that’s a real smile, with the lines and the dimples, and it hits Steve right in the chest. He wants to know what it tastes like, wants to feel it under his fingers, under his lips, over his—

How about making sure this particular Steve doesn’t fuck things up right now, Buck.

“That’s my house, by the way,” Bucky says, nodding at the space behind Steve.

Change of subject, good. Bucky reading Steve’s mind, familiar to the point where Steve’s surroundings shift and ripple, leaving him to float in that timeless spaceless nook of the universe where there is he, there is Bucky, and everything else can get fucking lost.

His body swivels around, mechanically, as his mind scrambles to catch up. He sees a neat round hut with a roof that looks hatched but has a distinct metal sheen to it. The arched doorway doesn’t seem to have an actual door, which must be saying something about the crime rates in Wakanda.

“Wanna come in?” Bucky asks from _right beside him_ , Jesus, how does Bucky move so silently, when did he get so close— _close_ —Steve can count the freckles dotting his cheekbones, oh god his cheekbones.

Steve jumps, jerks away, his chest heaves.

In a blink, Bucky’s face goes blank. Not the creepy soul-crippling nobody-home Winter Soldier look, no. It’s a careful blankness, conscious and schooled, a mask or a cover, wielded like a shield, with Bucky’s eyes staring at Steve from behind it, hard and wary, still, expectant, inscrutable.

What is he waiting for. What should Steve do.

Getting his bearings, Steve nods, “Yeah, sure,” and in another blink, the blankness is gone, replaced with a perfectly chummy smile, a breezy “C’mon, then,” and an aborted shoulder bump, which is really just a brush of Bucky’s blue scarf against Steve’s sleeve.

Why does Steve feel like he’s just missed something very important.

They start towards the hut, walking side by side, Bucky dodging the tiny goat’s attempts at rubbing against his legs, Steve stiff with the effort of keeping from following the goat’s example. Bucky glances at him sidelong.

“I knew teaching you how to shave would be a lost cause,” he says in that idle syrupy drawl that makes Steve’s palms sweat a bit. “Though for a different reason.” He jerks his chin at Steve’s jaw.

“You don’t like my beard?” Steve feigns an affronted pout.

“I’m surprised you managed to grow one.”

“I did grow one before! Remember my twentieth birthday?”

“Yeah, you looked like a prickly pear. And I don’t mean the cactus.”

Steve throws a glare at him, but it gets lost in the cheerful twinkles dancing in Bucky’s eyes.

“Anyway,” he says as they reach the hut, “I’m a fugitive on the run. The beard’s supposed to make me less recognizable.” It also makes him look fantastically badass, but he’s gonna let Bucky get to this conclusion on his own.

Bucky taps something on the wall to the right of the doorway, and a part of it slides up, revealing a kind of a sensor panel similar to Nat’s blue screen, but solid, not projected.

“I always recognize you,” he says lightly, busying himself over the panel, like it’s some simple statement of a totally obvious fact. Like it doesn’t knock Steve’s knees from under him, doesn’t squeeze his lungs flat, doesn’t close his throat shut. “C’mere,” Bucky says, oblivious of Steve’s sudden meltdown, and when Steve doesn’t (can’t) move, he grabs Steve’s wrist, dragging him closer. “Put your palm here.” He nods at the panel that is now displaying a glowing hand-shaped silhouette. Steve obeys. The panel vibrates, then the light blinks a few times. Bucky makes a satisfied noise, lets go of Steve’s wrist, and fiddles with some new buttons that pop up on the screen.

Steve stares at his hand. At the ground. The wall. Bucky. More wall.

“What,” he creaks, tries to swallow the barbed lump lodged in his throat, gives up, continues creaking, “what’s that?”

“Biolock,” Bucky says brightly and beams at Steve. “I just set it up to react to your palmprint.“

“What?”

“Look.” Bucky closes the panel, then moves as if to put his hand through the doorway. It’s stopped short by what appears to be an invisible force field, glowing blue at the points of contact. “See?” Bucky jabs his finger a few times into the force field, bouncing on his feet in excitement. “God, I love this place.”

The lump dissolves, as Steve lets himself enjoy the view. Bucky Barnes, the science fiction aficionado. Ever a calming sight.

“It’s pretty cool, yeah,” he says. It also explains the lack of normal doors. His guess about the crime rates in Wakanda must still hold true, even if not for the reason he first thought.

Then it clicks.

Did Bucky just basically give him the keys to his house.

Bucky must be reading his mind again (always), because he shrugs and says, “‘S better than leaving your key under a brick, don’t you think?” Before Steve can come up with a retort to that, Bucky re-opens the panel and presses his palm to it. “After you,” he says, motioning to the doorway.

Half-expecting a force-field-related prank, Steve reaches an arm out. It goes through. Nothing hits or burns or zaps him, so he grabs the edge of the curtain hanging over the doorway and throws it away as he steps inside.

The first thing he sees is his own eyes looking straight at him, framed by the slits of his own leather helmet.

Behind him, Bucky sounds like he’s smothering a laugh, but Steve can’t bring himself to turn around. Or move in general.

“You gotta be shitting me,” he mumbles, stunned.

Right across the doorway, there stands a life-size cardboard cutout of Captain America, giving him a cheeky grin and a flippant salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I love about metamodernism: I can simultaneously pretend that Endgame never happened and make references to it.


	11. eBay, Mostly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Steve learns what Bucky meant by ‘decorating’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it: the scene that started it all. One day this image invaded my brain and wouldn’t leave until I somehow wrote almost 45k words around it. And now, thanks to Kit’s incredible talent, you can see it too!

Question: which is dumber, a staring contest with a tiny goat named after you or a staring contest with a you-sized cardboard figure of, well, you?

Answer: maybe you’re asking the wrong question, Rogers.

The contest in progress is interrupted by Bucky oozing past him to wedge himself between the equally motionless flesh Steve and cardboard Steve. He holds his phone up. Steve hears a camera shutter.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, looking content, and taps the screen a few times. “Needed a new lockscreen,” he explains. “All the photos online are terribly outdated.”

Steve is dimly aware that Bucky is talking, though the words fail to reach him. He drags his eyes off the cutout, surveying the room around him. It’s a neat semicircular space divided into a kitchenette on the left and a sort of lounge area on the right, well-lit despite the absence of windows, with another curtained doorway leading into the back of the hut. There must be tons of Wakandan tech wonders around him, but all the furnishings are done in various shades of brown and yellow with a few reddish accents to match the earthy tones of the walls. The smoothed edges have a rough feel to them, like clay or wood, not the polished marble and chromium of the city.

None of that really matters, though, because practically every goddamn inch of the room is covered with. Jesus fucking Christ. No, not Jesus. _Him_.

“What.” His voice catches, as he points a shaking finger at a huge poster of Captain America’s grinning face plastered over the top part of the fridge on the left of the cutout. The lower part basically consists of magnets showing Captain America in every combat stance in existence. “Is,” he pushes out, jerking his hand further to the left to point at the Captain America’s shield-patterned towels hanging off the hooks over the counters. “All.” He swivels to glance at the area on his right, which boasts a probably complete collection of Captain America action figures on a shelf hung over a couch draped with a Captain America-themed throw blanket. “This.” His eyes snap back to peer at Bucky, mostly because he’s not sure he can take any more of his own face at the moment. “Buck?!”

“Told you I was decorating,” Bucky says, grinning like he was seventeen again and had just pulled off a prank that made Steve’s heart flop over itself.

“This isn’t what I imagined!” It comes out shriller than Steve intended or thought himself capable of.

The grin drops, replaced with a look too close to the careful blankness from earlier. “What did you imagine?” Bucky asks, toneless, and Steve’s stomach knots.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, spreading his hands. “Not this.”

“Well,” Bucky says, rocking from heel to toe, the near-blankness smoothing into a small smile. “Missed you, buddy.”

Steve’s eyes skim over the countless Captain America memorabilia crammed into the room. He didn’t even know they made this much, never cared to check. Posters interspersed with vinyl stickers, like a study in how dramatic a pose one can strike while clad in star-spangled tights. So that’s what Nat meant about his ass looking pompous. Is that his shield as a wall clock. Who in the world came up with the idea of making an entire line of Captain America-themed kitchen appliances, is that person okay. Why are there so many mugs with his face on them. Why is there a mug that is _shaped_ like his face.

Whatever this is, it’s definitely an upgrade from a single picture bookmarked in a notebook in Bucharest, to say the least.

“How did you…” he starts, stops, gapes like a fish.

“eBay, mostly,” Bucky says, stepping back, turning to worry the magnets on the fridge, straightening them. “Shuri showed me. Set up an account and everything, untraceable and all that shit.” He glides his hand over the grinning poster. “Didn’t have much under your name, so I tried Captain America, and geez, aren’t you one popular asshole. Glad you kept the outfit.” He flashes Steve a quick grin over his shoulder, and that’s when Steve notices a smaller picture poking out from behind the poster, all creased and frayed like it’s been worn around in pockets too small for it.

It’s a picture of Steve Rogers before the serum, skinny and scowling, in a plain white t-shirt, with dog tags hanging around his neck. The Smithsonian offered them for sale as souvenirs. When did Bucky get it, and how. He did mention a museum. How did he manage to keep it, wasn’t his backpack still with the CIA, did he carry the picture on his person all that time?..

How much do you have to miss someone to—

“You hungry?” Bucky calls from the stove before Steve can finish his thought.

Steve holds it. Holds on to it.

“Yeah,” he says, a bit breathy.

“Wanna something in particular?”

“Anything that’s not a protein bar will do.”

Bucky dives into the fridge, surveys the contents. “How about waffles?” he asks the picture on the door, then checks himself and turns to the real Steve. “Sorry, got used to talking to this buddy here.” His smile looks sheepish.

“Waffles sound good, yeah,” Steve says, struggling to keep his voice casual. His face is hot.

The unfinished thought is pressing hard on his brain.

“Need any help?” he asks as Bucky starts taking eggs and milk out of the fridge.

“You got any better around the kitchen?”

Well, it’s been a while since Steve burned anything. Mostly because he hasn’t actually cooked anything after he discovered food delivery. And microwaves. “Not really.”

“Then stay the fuck away please.”

Stay and watch Bucky’s back as he slides back and forth between the fridge and the counter. Watch the ropey muscles of his bare right arm flexing to fetch the bowls, measure the ingredients, stir the batter. Watch him swat away the stray strands from his face, hear him hum a tune under his breath, see his hips sway a little.

“Where can I, um, wash up?” Steve asks before his ears start steaming.

“Through the doorway, on the left,” Bucky motions with a jerk of his chin. Thankfully, he doesn’t look around.

Steve ducks behind the curtain into a tiny hallway. There’s another arched doorway in front of him, which must lead to Bucky’s bedroom, and Steve isn’t going there. He isn’t. He’s turning left, going through the first hardwood door in this house, like a good boy.

The bathroom is mostly a gentle muted beige, with a curved tub fitted along the round wall, a sink, and a toilet that has a sticker over the cover, making it look like Captain America’s shield is smashed into it. The shower curtain is also peppered with little round shields. On the edge of the tub, Steve notices a bottle of Captain America shower gel because of course there is one. _Smells like freedom!_ , it promises. He takes a sniff. Freedom smells like mint and lime. Should be refreshing. Doesn’t help the burning feeling he has all over his skin in the slightest.

Some weeks ago he wondered if there would be a place for him in Bucky’s new home. Now it appears that Bucky’s new home hardly has a place for anything else. It’s like Steve _is_ Bucky’s home, a crazy voice whispers inside his head.

He opens the faucets, bends over the sink, splashes cold water onto his face, lets it drip under his collar, down his sleeves. Not as good as a forest stream, but will have to do.

Calm the fuck down, Rogers. Of course Bucky’s missed you. You’re the only thing he has left from before he had his entire life torn from him. That’s all there is to it. Don’t you dare spoil it. Don’t you dare make it about you.

Take a deep breath, like Sam taught you. Count to five. Again. And one more time. Okay, good to go.

When he steps back into the kitchen slash living room, Bucky’s already putting the plates down onto a low coffee table before the couch. The waffles are round with two circular ridges and a star in the middle.

“Plum jam?” Bucky offers. “‘S homemade.”

“You make jam?”

“I’ve been getting a box of plums delivered to my door every fucking day for some reason,” Bucky says, mildly irritated. “Had to figure out what to do with those.”

“Ah. Yeah, sure.” So, the King did read Steve’s messages. Very dutifully. Steve will have to find a moment to thank the man properly.

After everything is set, Bucky plops onto a rug on the floor next to the table and pats a spot beside him. The rug is a spotted black-and-white goat skin.

“Is that a Steve?” Steve asks cautiously, pointing at the rug.

“Nah,” Bucky drawls and there’s a nasty glint in his eyes. “This one’s Sam.”

“Bucky. Did you skin Sam?!”

“Chill, Rogers. It was already a rug when I got it. I just named it.” He flicks the rug. “You sitting down or what?”

On something that used to be a goat and is now a rug called Sam.

Who’s Steve kidding. He’s done worse when it meant a chance at being closer to Bucky. Take, for example, enlisting to fight in a goddamn war in another part of the world. He drops his ass down and digs into his lunch.

The waffles are great, even if the idea of eating his own shield seems to be rather far on the wrong side of weird.

“How come you’re talking like a normal person?” he asks at some point into the meal. “Not that I’m complaining or anything.”

Bucky makes a quizzical sound around a mouthful of waffle.

“I mean, your texts.”

Another quizzical sound.

“I had to ask Nat to translate half of them.”

Bucky chews thoughtfully for a few moments. “Romanoff did that, huh?” he asks, as he smears jam over another waffle.

Steve nods. “You haven’t met her yet, have you?”

“I’ve met her weapon rack.” Which, presumably, has told him enough. Bucky contemplates the blunt jam knife in his hand, then puts it down and takes the dripping waffle. “Spoilsport,” he sighs, shoving the waffle into his mouth.

Realizing that Bucky has been intentionally messing with him shouldn’t be making Steve so incredibly ecstatic, but well. Go figure.

~

The rest of the day is a happy blur as Bucky takes Steve on a tour, showing him around. The people are friendly, the views are breathtaking, and they fall into their old, ageless rhythm, alternating between cozy banter and easy silence. Once Bucky swings his arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve goes red and rigid before he can help himself, which prompts another carefully blank look on Bucky’s face. They recover quickly, but they don’t touch afterwards.

When the sun goes down, spilling over the horizon in generous stokes of deep rose and gold, they make their way back to the hut.

“Captain.” A very sore-looking woman in a red and gold uniform is waiting for them at the door. Steve remembers her as the King’s simpering security who doesn’t seem like she’s mellowed towards Steve even a little bit. On the contrary, it’s like she disapproves of him even more. He gives the woman a terse nod.

“General? Whacha doing here?” Bucky asks, walking up to the visitor with a look of pleasant surprise. “Steve, this is General Okoye. She’s a total badass.”

“Stop it, you,” the woman grumbles, but her face breaks into a smile and she. Pulls Bucky into a hug. What.

“Nice to, um, meet you,” Steve says with knee-jerk civility, straining to push down the ugly flare in his chest.

The General glares at him over Bucky’s shoulder. Are they going to stop hugging. Why are they hugging.

“You know I’m always glad to see you, boy,” she tells Bucky, then sighs and takes a step back, thank God. “But I do _not_ appreciate the King using me as personal delivery service.” She picks something big and dark from the ground and throws it at Steve, together with another glare, this one strong enough to incinerate a small country.

He catches the thing, reflexively.

“Join us for dinner?” Bucky asks the General.

She shakes her head. “I’m on my way to visit my dumbass husband. Which is the only reason I agreed to do this,” she says, jerking her chin at the thing Steve has caught. 

“I see. Have a good night, then.”

“You too, dear.” She gives Bucky another smile and a squeeze on the shoulder. “And you, Captain,” oh, good, back to glaring, “try and take care of your stuff yourself next time.”

As she vanishes into the night, Steve studies the thing in his hands. It’s his bag from the jet. Which he completely forgot about.

“That your stuff?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. Guess I left it on the jet.” He was in a hurry, after all.

“So… You’re not staying at the Palace?”

Steve can see pretty well in the dark. He can see the grass shivering slightly under the breeze. The white carvings on the round clay walls. The blank mask creeping over Bucky’s face.

What is he missing. Why does he keep missing it.

He glances at his bag again. The King sent it here, which means Bucky’s right, Steve’s not expected to stay at the Palace. He shakes his head.

“Where _are_ you staying, then?” Bucky asks, voice perfectly even.

Why are you such a goddamn idiot, Rogers.

“Honestly, I kinda didn’t plan that far,” he admits, which is the truth, so maybe he deserved all of the General’s glares.

The mask on Bucky’s face melts into a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

Steve fiddles with the straps in his hands. It’s getting late. How’s he supposed to find a place in a strange country on such a short notice.

Maybe he could. If Bucky were. No.

(Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that. Don’t. Think.)

“Do you know where…” he starts, cuts himself off. He can’t push himself on Bucky, but it appears he can’t push away either.

Meet Steve Rogers, the master of fucking everything up.

“Well,” Bucky says, sweeping his arm in the direction of his house. “You already have the keys, so.”

And meet Bucky Barnes, the master of saving that goddamn idiot’s ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas is it gay to stuff your house full of your best pal’s face? Asking for a friend.
> 
> P.S. Some of the merch in Bucky’s house is real, some I invented, although I’m 90% sure it exists somewhere on the vast plains of dear old internet. The Captain America-themed kitchen appliances are completely real ([a waffle maker](https://www.amazon.com/Marvel-MVA-278-Captain-America-Waffle/dp/B0197W432M), [a toaster](https://www.amazon.com/Marvel-Captain-America-2-Slice-Toaster/dp/B074MBVYWZ/), and [a slow cooker](https://www.amazon.com/Marvel-Captain-America-Shield-2-Quart/dp/B077HDLTV2/)) and I do wonder about the person who came up with the idea.


	12. Like Dreams, But in Writing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain website makes a cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are the highlight of my year. <3 <3 <3

The dinner is surprisingly devoid of any Captain America-themed products, if you don’t count the round red-white-and-blue coasters. Or the mugs. Or the supposedly justice-flavored tea (cloves and cinnamon with a dash of orange).

Steve volunteers to help with the dishes, but, of course, there’s a Wakandan dishwasher with more IQ points than he has to take care of that.

There it goes, then. He follows Bucky into the bedroom, trying very hard to keep his hands steady and to himself.

No life-size figures spring on him as he crosses the threshold, but the closet on the right of the doorway is covered with Captain America-related clippings from newspapers and magazines. On the left, Steve notices stacks of books and is marginally relieved to see that not all of those are Captain America comic books. So, Bucky’s reading about the bigger world as well. And he’s not limiting his sources to the internet alone, although there is a laptop perched on the nightstand in the far left corner of the room. Steve lets his eyes drift to the bed. It’s low, broad, curved along the round wall, and absolutely strewn with Captain America plush toys of varying sizes, including a giant three-feet one.

The crazy voice in Steve’s head speaks up again, stronger this time, and just as tempting. Does Bucky snuggle with the dolls in his sleep. Would he do the same with the real thing.

What would it take for Steve to stop thinking like a hopeless lunatic.

“Make yourself at home,” Bucky says, waving his hand at the room. Steve almost misses it, caught up in his own little world. “I’m gonna pop out to settle other Steves in for the night. You need anything?”

A new brain, please. Probably a new heart. This one is severely malfunctioning.

Steve drops into a crouch and ducks his head into his bag. Takes inventory.

“You have a spare towel I could use?”

“Aplenty,” Bucky assures him and goes to rummage in the closet. “Wanna wipe your ass with your face?”

Is that. Is that something Bucky does. Should Steve just zip his head into the bag and let it stay there until it cools down to the appropriate human temperature.

“N-not really, no,” he stammers, fighting against his raging imagination. It’s a losing battle.

Something soft lands on the back of his neck. Standing up, he takes it off and brings it to his eyes. It’s a deep-blue towel with red-and-white edging and a neat winged star in the middle. Unexpectedly tasteful.

“Anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Nodding, Bucky glides past Steve to the doorway. His shoulder almost brushes against Steve’s. Almost.

“Hey,” he calls, stopping with his hand already on the curtain. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he says, quietly, and is out before Steve can reply.

~

A cold shower would be a more logical choice under the circumstances, but even superhuman will cannot resist real hot water after months away from civilization, and Steve relishes the near-boiling rush of it rolling over his body in voluptuous cascades.

He slips into the cleanest t-shirt and sweatpants his bag could provide. His muscles are pure mush. He hopes they’ll be able to stay just like that through the night. Spongy, shapeless, a non-threatening mass of sexless puree.

One glance at the bed threatens to shatter that hope into bitter smithereens, so Steve flops onto the floor, resting his back against the stacks of books. He hears Bucky come back in, hears the bathroom door close behind him, hears the water start. Struggles to avoid thinking about Bucky in the shower, his skin, taut and wet, his hair, long and dripping, all of him, flushed and pliable. Steve’s eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for something to latch on.

They stop on the laptop, left on and unprotected on the nightstand. Careless, unacceptably so for someone in deep hiding, someone trained to stay invisible, leave no traces. A ghost wouldn’t have been so negligent.

Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe Bucky’s learning how to be something other than a ghost. Maybe this house is a place where he can relax and let go.

And maybe he doesn’t consider Steve to be an intruder, regardless of what Steve thinks about himself.

Leaning forward, Steve squints at the glowing screen. He doesn’t recognize the browser, must be some kind of Wakandan special anti-detection software. It’s opened on a tab with the Wikipedia logo, but the layout is unfamiliar. Large letters on the top of the page read _Editing Captain America_. Hm. Steve notes about a dozen tabs with the YouTube symbol, which he does recognize, thanks to Sam’s frankly abusive amounts of inspirational talks sharing. There’s also another dozen tabs with a logo Steve hasn’t encountered before, a red flourishy scribble with a circle on top.

“If you’re gonna sleep on the floor, I can fetch Sam for you,” Bucky says, padding into the bedroom. He’s toweling his hair with Captain America’s face.

This pang of jealousy is especially ludicrous, not that Steve can help it.

He jerks his head at the laptop, keeping his eyes trained on the screen. “You editing a Wikipedia article on me?”

“Felt it lacked a comprehensive list of all the places Steve Rogers had his ass whooped,” Bucky says, as he lowers himself onto the bed.

“A truly valuable contribution, yes.” Steve snatches a glimpse at Bucky. A loose grey tunic hangs off his neck, exposing the metal part of his left shoulder and the smooth black cover over it. The folds end just below Bucky’s knees, swishing over the strong sinewed calves, the shadows playing over the chiseled muscles. Steve yanks his eyes back to the laptop. “What’s with the YouTube? Let me guess. Goat cheese recipes or hair braiding tutorials?”

Wordlessly, Bucky stretches his arm, taps the first YouTube tab, hits play.

“ _So... You got detention_ ,” Captain America’s voice booms from the speakers.

“Oh my God, Bucky, not these!” Steve groans, flails his hands, hides his head between his knees.

Bucky takes mercy on him and stops the video.

“I was fresh out of ice,” Steve starts explaining, words rushing out of him in a flustered jumble, “hardly knew my own name, didn’t understand what they wanted me to do, just read the words. Didn’t even try to stop and think what any of those meant...” He stops abruptly. Swallows hard. Lifts his eyes to see the heavy look and the dark shadow on Bucky’s face.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Guess I know the feeling,” Bucky says, just a bit shaky.

Would it kill you to use your brain before yapping your mouth, Rogers.

“Sorry, Buck. I didn’t…”

“Save it.” Bucky shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. “‘S okay.” He gives Steve a lopsided smile. “We’ve all been used one way or another.”

“But.” How can you even compare it.

“‘S not a competition, Steve.”

Maybe it isn’t. Still, Steve really should be checking himself before he puts all his feet into his mouth.

He draws a deep breath. Blinks away the angry prickling behind his eyes. Notices his hands are clenched into fists. Unclenches them. Watches as Bucky brings back the Wikipedia tab.

“That laptop looks pretty ancient for Wakanda,” he says at last, reining his voice in, “even with the touch screen.” It’s a clumsy move, and they both know it, but Bucky is kind enough to go with it.

“Bit difficult to use the beads with one arm,” he says, tapping the metal below his collarbone. “Shuri said I could choose any of the old tech from her dump.” He lights up at the memory, and Steve feels some of the tension flow out of him. Bucky must’ve loved it, picking through heaps of gadgets and gizmos, actually touching the marvels of human progress, getting to see the future he wanted, not the one he’s been forced into. “This buddy seemed all right,” Bucky pats the laptop affectionately.

Steve adds laptops to the list of things no sane human being should ever feel jealous of.

“What’s that website?” He points at the tabs with the red scribble. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

Bucky’s face does something complicated. His hand fiddles with the collar of his tunic, re-arranges the folds, straightens out the hem.

“Well,” he says, as his hand reaches the end of the tunic and flies up to rub at his neck. “I didn’t just google _you_ , you know. I tried looking up something about myself, too.”

Steve tried that once, long before the fight on the bridge in DC. The new world around him was still hazy and not quite real, and he kept dreaming of trains and screeching metal, waking up with tears streaming down his face. One night, as he gasped out of another nightmare, he typed Bucky’s name in the search bar and hit Enter, as Fury had taught him. He saw a link to the Smithsonian, a few excerpts from history textbooks, and the same five photos repeating over and over and over, and it was too little and too much, not nearly enough and the last straw breaking every single one of his aching bones. Steve had to shut his eyes before the rage and the loss ripped him apart. He might have been screaming. He never searched Bucky’s name online again.

Why would he, really. His brain has been showing him a complete Bucky Barnes retrospective non-stop ever since the goddamn Alps.

“Didn’t find much,” Bucky’s voice reaches him, pulling him back into the room, “mostly some bullshit about me being the loyal sidekick to the great Captain America.” He makes a can-you-believe-them face at Steve, and Steve mirrors it. A sidekick, geez. Steve wouldn’t have lived long enough to meet Dr. Erskine if it weren’t for Bucky, for God’s sake. “But then I found this website.” Bucky taps one of the tabs with the scribble.

The tab shows a white web page with the same scribble, but larger, in the top left corner. A narrow horizontal strip in the same shade of red runs across the screen below it. Under the strip, Steve reads _Search Results_ in big bold letters, and on the next line, he notices his name and Bucky’s name, separated (joined?) by a slash. Below that, _10,536 found_.

“What does this mean?” Steve asks, glancing back at Bucky, just in time to see his cheeks get tinged with a hint of a blush.

Bucky swipes his finger over the screen, making the page scroll up and down, the letters on it jumbling together into a single mess of writing, unreadable.

“It’s a website where people write stories,” he says finally, letting the page jump back to the top.

“Like books?” About him? About Bucky? About both of them?

“Yeah, like books, but not for fame or profit or anything. Just…” Bucky worries his lip between his teeth, searches for words. “‘S like there’s something they want to see happen, but it doesn’t, so they make it.”

“Like dreams?”

“Yeah, but in writing.”

That sounds beautiful and dangerous at the same time.

Steve nods at the screen. “And those are?..”

Bucky’s eyes dart down and to the right, calculating. Then he balances the laptop in his hand and holds it out for Steve. “Guess that Smithsonian exhibit got people, uh, thinking,” he says, as Steve takes the laptop and frowns at the screen.

There are so many words on that screen.

“The underlined ones are tags,” Bucky says over the growing hum between Steve’s ears. “Like, what the story has or doesn’t have in it. Warnings. Or promises.”

Some seem to be more frequent than others. Steve scrolls through the page. _Friends to Lovers_ tickles something shut and sealed at the very bottom of his mind. His brows furrow at _Period-Typical Homophobia._ Then, there’s a bunch of underlined combinations of words that start with _Anal_. Those make Steve’s sweatpants feel very very uncomfortable.

He switches his attention to the non-underlined words, which appear to be the summaries of the stories. And what summaries those are.

_Before they were Captain America and Sergeant Barnes, they were Steve and Bucky, just two kids from Brooklyn, determined to look out for each other no matter what. They never noticed when their friendship turned into something different. Nor did they ever regret it._

_The true story of Captain America and his best guy. If that’s what them kids were calling it in those days._

_Inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. And, obviously, in the bedroom._

Steve’s head is full of cotton wool, and his hands are leaving wet smudges on the laptop. He feels exposed, flayed, violated. A surge of angry possessiveness rushes through him. Those are _his_ dreams. How dare anyone else go and dream them like that. How dare anyone write about them in this way.

How dare people he’s never met see right through him. Who gave them the right. Who gave them the _idea_.

There is, of course, that exhibit, with its grainy film reels of Captain America grinning at his Sergeant like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. It probably is. But still.

The words unravel before his eyes into incomprehensible dots and squiggles when he realizes.

“Did you… did you read these?” he chokes out over the thundering roar of his pulse in his ears.

“Some,” Bucky admits. Steve risks a glance at him. Bucky’s hand lies still over his knee. His face is impenetrable.

“What.” Steve’s voice refuses to cooperate. The room is too hot. “What did you think?”

Maybe Steve could just burn alive right then and there and never have to listen to whatever Bucky is about to say.

Bucky laughs, tense and bitter. “We’d get so fucking arrested if any of those were true,” he says.

A horrible, horrible voice pipes up from some deep and forbidden corner of Steve’s heart. We could hide, it says. We could make it work, it keeps saying. The two of us, with Steve’s brass and Bucky’s brains, we could’ve pulled that off, it insists, and how do you punch something into silence if this something is a part of your own damn self.

Then Bucky adds, quietly, halfway between a whisper and a dream, “Don’t think I’d have minded that.”

Bucky’s face is a mask, that blank mask again, heavy with the question that Steve has been too scared to read, so afraid he was reading _into_ it, he never let himself actually _look_.

Forget the sexless puree. Steve is a coiled spring, thrumming violently with a hope larger than his entire way too long life.

“Bucky,” he breathes. “I. You. Do you…?” He’s stammering, stalling, out-of-his-wits terrified. “Are you sure?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, tight and slow, his voice tipping into a growl as he rolls his eyes deliberately around the room full of Steve’s goddamn face. “Are you fucking blind?”

The question is spelled so clearly across his face, how could Steve keep missing it, it’s been there the whole time, plain and open, laid out for taking.

_How can you be so dumb, Rogers?_

_Why are you sitting there like a stupid sack of stupid potatoes?_

_What the fuck are you waiting for, Steve?_

The spring uncoils, and there he is, kneeling before Bucky, throwing his arms across Bucky’s legs, thrusting his burning face into the smooth steadiness of Bucky’s thighs, just like he imagined, except that it’s not him dragging Bucky down, it’s Bucky tugging him up, up, like he’s always done, which is so fucking symbolic if you stop to think about it.

Steve doesn’t stop to think about it.

“God, Bucky,” he says, somewhere between finding himself in Bucky’s lap and pressing his nose into Bucky’s neck, and it’s better than he imagined, so much better, it’s goddamn freaking fantastic. Bucky smells of mint and lime and fire and home. “I’m sorry,” Steve presses his cheek to Bucky’s, presses their foreheads together, cradles Bucky’s face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry for?” Bucky asks against Steve’s mouth, his hand stroking Steve’s back, pulling him close, closer.

Steve laughs, hysterically. “Waiting so long,” he says and touches his lips to Bucky’s, careful and trembling all over, waiting for the illusion to shatter around him.

Bucky kisses him back, wild and ravenous, and it’s not an illusion, of course it isn’t. Illusions don’t bite into your lips until you moan, obscene and shameless, don’t run their hand in circles over the small of your back, digging their fingers deeper and deeper, until you’re melting and immaterial and rock hard, utterly wrecked and finally, finally put exactly right.

“What,” he places a kiss to Bucky’s jaw, how is his beard so soft, Steve will have to pry that trick out of him, later, later, it can wait, everything can goddamn wait. “What do we do now?” he asks, delirious.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums into Steve’s temple, and Steve feels Bucky’s grin grow bright and hungry against his skin. “According to popular opinion,” Bucky glances at the laptop, abandoned on the floor, then looks straight into Steve’s eyes, setting Steve’s insides aflame, “we fuck.”

“We, uh, we do?”

Oh boy, do they.

~

Nat was right. It’s another whole new range of sounds Steve is apparently capable of making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the power of fanfiction, my friends. It can conquer even superserum-enhanced idiocy.


	13. Make Him Chuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embarrassing amounts of domesticity.

Bucky is handing Steve his star-spangled cup of hot coffee, freshly brewed by a patriotically blue coffee maker adorned with several Captain America’s shields, when Sam’s voice drifts from the outside, bringing a touch of bitchiness to their otherwise serene morning.

“It’s a curtain. Why is it a curtain.”

They exchange a look and giggle stupidly, like they’ve already done about a million times since waking up tangled together, Bucky with an armful of Steve’s torso, Steve with a mouthful of Bucky’s hair. The giggling probably has nothing to do with Sam.

“How do you knock on a curtain.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Steve joins Bucky in leaning against the counter, scoots closer, touches his hip to Bucky’s, weaves his right arm around Bucky’s waist. How is he allowed to do all that. Thank God he is allowed to do all that.

“Think we should help him?” he whispers into Bucky’s ear, dizzy with the still new proximity.

“Nah,” Bucky says, sips his own coffee, turns his head to peck Steve on the cheek. They giggle again. It still has nothing to do with Sam.

“You people ever heard about doors, man? Or maybe doorbells?”

The noncommittal grunt that follows must be the King.

“How do you knock on a fucking curtain.” 

Sam sounds genuinely distraught. Sighing, Steve puts his mug aside, moves towards the doorway, glances back at Bucky. Okay, this time the giggling may have something to do with Sam.

“You just talk loudly until you annoy the people inside into letting you in,” Steve says, raising his voice. He presses his palm to the interior biolock panel, throws the curtain away, and steps aside to let their unannounced, though not entirely unexpected guests pile inside.

“Holy shit,” Sam says, while Steve rejoins Bucky at the counter.

Nat whistles. Wanda’s jaw hangs open. The Princess and the King seem already familiar with Bucky’s taste in interior decoration.

“Morning all,” Steve greets them, and is immediately pinned with five looks of varying degrees of perplexity, ranging from mild inquisitiveness to what-in-the-fucking-hell. Well, damn, what is there to say. He nudges Bucky’s shoulder and gets a nod of approval, accompanied with a grin that almost makes Steve forget there are other people present. Who are waiting for him to say something. Right.

Feeling raucously bold, he makes a show of bringing the star-spangled mug to his lips, placing his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and toasting his friends with the mug, as he announces to the room:

“Looks like I do, in fact, have a boyfriend.” The word tastes sweet in his mouth, heady, true, unbelievable.

“You don’t say,” the King says dryly, but his eyes are smiling.

“More like a fan,” Wanda notes, as her eyes keep going in circles around the room.

“I believe the correct term is a _stan_ ,” Nat says, turning to Shuri, who nods sagely and proceeds to snap an alarming number of pictures with her beads.

“Please tell me you have Cap’s face tattooed all over your ass,” Sam says to Bucky, looking like he’s on the verge of cracking up at his own joke. Real classy, Sam.

“Why would I want a tattoo,” Bucky says, sounding honestly confused, “when I can have the real thing anytime?”

And that, people, is exactly why Steve loves this jerk, he thinks to himself, as he watches Sam collapse sideways into the nearest wall and wheeze into an appropriately judgemental glossy crotch of a 22x34-inch art deco Captain America.

~

Put seven people, some of which might be nurturing a long-standing grudge against one another, into a rather small living area, shake them with some news that isn’t really news but still gets everyone disproportionately excited, leave them to rest, and what’s the worst that can happen?

“Oh my God, is that a Captain America toaster? Does it put little shields on the toasts? Barnes, tell me, I need to know.”

“Yes, yes, and yes, Romanoff, there’s bread on the fridge, knock yourself out.”

“Perfect. You can call me Nat, by the way.”

“You named a rug after me? Because it really ties the room together?”

“No, because it’s just lying there, doing nothing.”

“Ha ha. That’s exactly what a rug is supposed to do, so the burn’s on you.”

“Look, I made Captain America kick Captain America’s ass!”

“Bet I can make Captain America suck Captain America’s dick.”

“Oh, Sam, I believe our Cap already got that covered.”

“Don’t listen to them, Bucky.”

“Well, they’re not wrong.”

“Um. I really like your house.”

“Thanks, Wanda. Want some plums?”

“LO AND BEHOLD, I am the mighty American hero!.. Oops. Sorry, Bucky, I might have broken one of your Caps.”

“Don’t worry, Princess. He heals fast.”

Huh. No awkward silences, no stilted small-talk, no loaded questions with grating answers, not so much as a baleful glare. And Bucky, God, Bucky is calm and graceful and beautiful, talking, smiling, getting to know, letting himself get known. Not quite the cocky lord of the dance hall Steve remembers from a few lifetimes ago, but so far from the Bucky-shaped shadow that made Steve’s blood freeze in Romania, keep freezing in Germany, stay frozen all through Siberia, go absolute zero as he watched what signs of life still remained in it fade in the icy mist of the cryochamber.

Getting defrosted and ready for duty, that’s easy. It can be done anywhere. Doesn’t matter if your heart stays an unwieldy chunk of ice, as long as your combat qualities are intact. Thawing, learning how to be warm again, letting yourself be soft and alive and living, that’s a whole different story. Steve kind of stopped looking for a place where it could have been made possible a long time ago. That was a hope he couldn’t afford.

Until he was kindly allowed into Wakanda, that is. This astounding country, with its bold colors, dauntless people, blazing warmth, and the infinite benevolence of its King. Who’s currently hanging back by the doorway, overseeing the hubbub with a reserved smile, close to where Steve ended up by the wall, sidelined by the abundance of other Captain Americas.

Might be as good a moment as any.

He walks up to the King, touches his forearm to get his attention. “Your Highness. A word?”

“Sure, Captain.”

~

The lake by Bucky’s house isn’t large, but it’s not a particularly small one either. Surely Steve and the King aren’t planning on walking all the way around it without saying a word, when a private conversation was exactly the purpose of this excursion.

And yet Steve can’t get anything out. How do you begin thanking someone who has helped you in more ways than you knew you needed?

“I believe you wanted to talk,” the King says after about fifteen minutes of silence.

Steve stammers. Sighs. Ducks his head, rubs his neck, looks at the sky. Stammers some more.

“I’m sorry to put you in this position.”

The smile on the King’s face makes Steve feel like his valiant attempts at being a responsible adult are simultaneously commendable and unconvincing. It’s becoming less of a wonder how Black Widow and Black Panther became such good friends.

“It is bold of you to assume that you can put me in _any_ position, Captain,” the King assures him. “My presence in Siberia was in violation of the Accords as well as yours. Or Mr. Stark’s. Any confrontation I may have with the Security Council is of my own doing.”

“I thought you supported the Accords.”

“I will not let anyone supervise me.”

There is a ferocious power roiling under the King’s veneer of complacency. Steve doesn’t question it.

“Now that the politics have been dealt with, let me assure you that this is purely a social call,” the King says, then adds, pointedly, “Steve.”

How can so much kindness fit into one man.

“I just don’t know how to thank you,” Steve confesses, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “You’ve done so much for me, for us, and I can’t think of a single way to repay you. I mean, I’m a goddamn fugitive. I have no home, no power, no money, nothing except my fists.” And Bucky. “Right now, I owe everything to you.” Including Bucky. “You need my fists by any chance?”

“Steve. Slow down.” The King stops and places a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder, giving it a shake. “I do not need your fists, but thank you for offering,” he says, catching Steve’s eye. That look of pure generosity deserves to be iconized.

Steve exhales, gives the King a humbled smile, and they resume their walk.

“Frankly,” the King starts, sounding amused, “making sure your friend stays happy falls under the national security interests of Wakanda. And believe me, indulging a minor shopping spree is incomparably cheaper than tripling the production of tranquilizers.”

Ah, yes. There was that incident.

Well, treating Bucky’s well-being as a matter of national security is an attitude Steve will get behind any day.

“Speaking of your friend’s happiness,” the King says, and his face clouds. He continues, before Steve can switch into full-on panic mode, “We have removed the conditioning. But not the experience.”

Distantly, Steve thinks that it’s too small a word for the enormity of horror it’s supposed to encapsulate.

“I understand,” he says, looking straight ahead.

They walk in silence for a few minutes.

“He seems to be holding up pretty well,“ Steve says at length, grateful and defensive at the same time.

“He is happy now,” the King concedes. “He may get sad later.”

Steve sets his jaw, as if getting ready to punch any sign of sadness into next century. “I’ll be there for him.”

The King stops, turns to Steve, searches his face intently. Whatever he finds seems to leave him satisfied, as he nods and continues walking.

Is he. Is he making sure that Steve is capable of taking proper care of Bucky? The thought almost makes Steve laugh out loud. Would you look at this, Buck. Everyone loves you.

And really, how could they not.

“Your friend has set upon a road to peace,” the King starts saying, and Steve listens carefully. “It is a long road, and a winding one, treacherous at times, looping back on itself. If you truly want to repay me, perhaps you could consider joining your friend on that journey.”

Does Steve even need to consider it?

“Why are you doing this?” he asks the King, as they turn around to walk back to the house.

The King crosses his arms, looks at the ground, fixes his eyes on the horizon. “My father made a mistake,” he says, his voice heavy with guilt that is not his own. “He made a lot of mistakes, but all of them were the same one. He did not help where he could, and other people had to pay the price.” His face is hard stone, and his eyes burn fiercely. “I will not let that happen again. Wakanda will not be known as a place where help is denied when help is due. If the world needs an example of dignity to follow, I will be more than happy to provide one.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, because what else is there to say. “T’Challa.”

“Anytime, Steve.”

~

Steve and T’Challa are halfway back to the house when Steve’s phone pings in his sweatpants.

That’s weird. Isn’t everyone busy gushing over every single variant of Captain America except the real one. Did anything happen. Did they run out of Captain Americas.

“You mind if I?..” he shoots a questioning look at T’Challa.

“By all means.”

The text is from Bucky.

_u alright?_

Sweet sweet sweet Bucky Barnes, always a worrywart.

The muscles of Steve’s face arrange into an expression, which seems familiar but stretches his cheeks more than he’s used to. It feels nice. And stop snorting, T’Challa, no one asked you.

Steve types and sends a reply.

_Yes, just needed to talk a few things over with T’Challa. We’ll be back soon._

He moves to re-pocket the phone, but it pings again.

_oh oh steeb make him chuckle_

What.

_What?_

_come on steve don’t be dumb_

_When was the last time THAT happened?_

_yesterday ;) ;) ;)_

Oh good lord, emojis.

Steve sneaks a glance at T’Challa. His right eyebrow looks like it’s testing the limits of its amplitude.

“Sorry, one second,” Steve mumbles, returning his eyes to the screen.

_steeb get this: t’challa t’chuckles_

Steve doesn’t get this.

“Everything alright?” T’Challa asks pleasantly.

Just Bucky throwing some incomprehensible words at him. Business as usual.

“He, uh, wants me to make you chuckle? That makes sense?”

“Ah,” T’Challa says and heaves a sigh that sounds so long-suffering, Steve feels sincerely concerned. “Must be a _t’chuckling_ day.”

That… doesn’t make sense.

T’Challa rubs a hand over his face. “It’s a game your friend and my sister came up with,” he explains, his eyebrows now drawn together in annoyance. “They pick a verb that starts with _ch_ , add a _t_ to it, then spend an entire day trying to get me to do the action described by the verb. Every time someone succeeds, that person gets a point.” Pressing his lips into a thin straight line, he adds, “It’s highly entertaining.”

“Really?” Steve asks, because he so wants to hear more about this.

T’Challa rubs both his hands over his face. “The poker night on the _t’cheating_ day? Total chaos. And then they even put the General up to this,” T’Challa proceeds to rant, disregarding Steve’s violent struggle against the chortling rising from his belly in a tidal wave. Poor man must’ve been waiting for someone to unload on for weeks. “Can you imagine what that vicious fox did? She dragged Nakia to the Palace solely for the _t’chikening_ day!”

The indignation in T’Challa’s voice is very infectious, and Steve is fully ready to partake in it, but.

“I’m sorry, who’s Nakia?”

“Um.” T’Challa visibly deflates. Runs a hand over his head. Stares at something in the distance in the direction opposite of Steve. “She’s my, um.” He adjusts the collar of his shirt, stares at something right ahead of him. “It’s complicated.”

Since he’s now committed to being a good friend to T’Challa, Steve isn’t going to pry. He’s pretty sure Bucky’ll tell him everything he needs to know anyway.

After a few dozen steps, T’Challa’s huffing recedes into a lighter sigh. His steps don’t sound like stomps anymore either.

“My sister and your friend,” he says, lips curling into a fond smile, “they are an intimidating force.”

Steve feels a new plucky urge tug on his tongue. Oh what the hell.

“My boyfriend,” he corrects T’Challa.

The word floats in the air for a little bit, like a speck of dust caught by sunlight.

“Of course,” T’Challa says.

And t’chuckles.

~

Stepping inside the house, Steve is instantly blindsided by a roar of laughter coming from the couch. Which is occupied by Sam and Bucky, who are, fantastically, not trying to eviscerate each other. Instead, they are both wiping at their eyes, pounding their knees, and, uh, taking turns at screaming into the Captain America blanket thrown over them?

What is going on.

“I kid you not,” Sam says, while Bucky fans himself with his corner of the blanket, “I fucking pulled a wing catching that brainless piece of shit. ‘Cause, y’know, parachutes are for sissies.”

Steve feels an ominous twitch in his stomach.

“Oh, oh,” Bucky perks up, “did he ever tell you about that time he totally bug-on-a-windshielded that barn in France? The damn moron was so sure he could just, like, hop over a fucking building!”

Okay, that’s just low.

“I was still learning what I could or couldn’t do with the new body, and you know that, Buck,” Steve reproaches, coming up to loom over the couch and summoning up his eyebrows of disapproval. Bucky is, quite naturally, immune.

“Aw, Stevie, too bad you didn’t use your brain for that.”

“Hey, can’t use what you don’t have, right, man?”

They high-five.

“I thought you hated each other,” Steve says, folding his arms accusingly.

“We do,” Bucky assures him.

“We just hate your dumb ass more,” Sam supplies, putting his hand out for a fistbump. Bucky obliges.

Sliding onto the coffee table out of nowhere, as per her usual, Nat points her screen at the two hollering assholes on the couch. “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, roasting Captain America,” she muses as her screen camera shutters. “I’d watch the shit out of that show.”

Dear almighty God in heaven. Please never let that happen.

“Steve,” T’Challa’s voice reaches Steve from over his shoulder, “I think you might have been wrong.” Steve turns to him, raises an eyebrow in question. Smiling gently, T’Challa nods at the couch. “About not having a home.”

On the couch, Sam is miming something terribly disturbing, and Bucky’s grin is blinding and brilliant and unrestrained.

Well. Even Steve Rogers can’t be right all the time, can he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not, under any circumstances, think about the fact that Nat doesn’t live to see the events of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.  
> Remember: Endgame never happened. Neither did Infinity War. We are all frozen in 2016, and it’s beautiful.


	14. Tell Me a Story, Buck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Bucky tells Steve a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kind comments keep rendering me speechless and making me insanely happy. Sending all the love back at you! <3 <3 <3

After a lunch out, for which the group is joined by the General and her husband and his five hundred and thirty-eight curious facts about rhinos, Nat and Bucky start a passionate argument about the relative cuteness of cats versus goats. That is how they all end up back at the house, watching cat videos on Nat’s screen and trying to re-enact them with Bucky’s goats. The argument ends in a tie with everyone scoring their share of t’chuckling points.

By the time T’Challa broaches the subject of a dinner at the Palace, Bucky still has an easy smile on, but there’s a tightness around his eyes, and Steve opts for a rain check.

“I think we’d rather stay in today. Right, Buck?” He glances at Bucky, who nods and wraps his arm around himself.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Bucky says to T’Challa, rubbing the cover over the metal stump.

T’Challa shakes his head. “Don’t mention it.” He walks up to Steve and Bucky, placing his hands on their shoulders. “Another time, then.” The three of them trade a smile.

“Oooh, young love,” Nat coos mischievously. Sam wiggles his eyebrows, Wanda blows a kiss, Shuri splays a hand over her chest in mock-swoon, and T’Challa herds them all out of the doorway, throwing Steve and Bucky an apologetic look over his shoulder.

Pressing his palm to the biolock panel, Steve chuckles to himself. “Well,” he starts saying, then hears a dull thud on his left and pivots toward the sound, alarmed.

He sees Bucky lying flat on the couch, face down, his arm hanging limply off the side. Gingerly, Steve lowers himself onto the floor next to the couch, as his mind sprints. What’s happening. What should he do. Bucky’s breathing is so sparse and shallow, Steve has to strain his ears to catch it.

Steve’s own breakdowns usually involve much hyperventilation, lots of wheezing, and a fair amount of thrashing, his first instinct being to fight whatever is drowning him. This is different. Bucky’s deathly still, like he’s trying to stop existing or maybe thinks he already has and is now letting himself fade, vanish, disintegrate into ashes, get carried away by the wind, be erased off the face of the earth.

No. Nope, no, no, no. Not happening. Not on Steve’s watch.

Steve moves to place his hand on Bucky’s back, catches himself, then curses himself. Get it together, Rogers. Remember what Sam taught you, back when none of you knew what state of mind Bucky would be in when you’d find him.

“Buck? Bucky,” he calls, as carefully as he can. “You okay?”

No response.

“Bucky?”

Not even a suggestion of a response.

“Okay if I touch you?”

That earns him a muffled growl, which Steve construes as a good sign.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Bucky grits out into the couch and gropes blindly with his hand, socking Steve in the nose before finding Steve’s wrist and clamping it tightly. “Don’t you dare treat me like fucking glass, Steve.”

Says the guy who wouldn’t let Steve out of bed because of a single cough that “sounded off” to him. Well, at least Bucky’s talking, and his voice is rough but steady.

“If we’re doing this,” Bucky continues, and Steve doesn’t have to ask what _this_ is, “then you treat me like a huge-ass crystal fucking chandelier,” he turns his head to the side, so Steve can see the crooked curve of his lips and the dead-serious steel of his eyes, “that will smash you into very tiny and very dead pieces of dumbass if you manage to knock it over.”

None of Sam’s booklets or lectures mentioned homicidal light fixtures, but Steve can see that. Can see Bucky, dazzling and magnificent and potentially lethal, breakable but not fragile, capable of being hurt as much as of hurting back. Warning Steve that caring about him would mean caring about himself, too, lest they both end up shredded beyond repair.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Steve says, truthfully.

“Good.”

Bucky hides his face back into the couch and draws himself even flatter, then takes his hand off Steve’s wrist and snaps his fingers twice. The lights in the room go out, with only a Captain America’s shield left glowing in soft blue on the wall above the shelf with action figures, which are now arranged in poses that Steve doesn’t want to inspect too closely.

Minutes stretch in the near-darkness, reminding Steve of those distant nights when neither of them could sleep and both of them were free, eternal, ethereal, tucked away from the world, secure in each other’s presence.

“What does the chandelier want now?” he asks, softly.

Bucky’s hand finds his wrist again, drags it upwards, places it on his neck. Taking the hint, Steve brushes his fingers over Bucky’s back, smooths his hair, rubs his thumb into the rigid knots just under Bucky’s shoulders, confirms with his touch that Bucky is solid and real and there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he suggests, just in case.

“Just tired, is all,” Bucky says, and adjusts his head a little, so his words don’t get lost in the upholstery. “Long day. Many people.”

“You handled them pretty well.”

“‘M not a fucking hermit, Steve. I’ve been socializing.”

“I know,” Steve says and gently swipes Bucky’s hair to the side, so he can trace his knuckles over the vertebrae pushing against the skin of Bucky’s neck.

“Mmm,” Bucky says as a shiver runs through his body. “Keep doing that.”

Not like Steve was planning to stop.

“Anything else, Buck?”

“No.”

Progressing rapidly in the subtle art of hint-taking, Steve shuts up and focuses on his hand on Bucky’s skin, doing his best to chase away the numb stiffness from Bucky’s muscles. He listens as Bucky’s breaths become deeper, more pronounced, feels his own heart rate slow down. It’s okay. They can do it. They’re doing great already.

Time passes around them in a hazy stream, negligible, unnoticed. Bucky’s breathing on the couch. Steve’s stroking his bare neck.

What does anything else matter.

Eventually, Bucky lets a deep sigh rush out of him, then catches Steve’s hand, brings it to his lips, and places a soft kiss to the back of it.

“Thanks,” he says.

Before Steve can protest or apologize or say something equally stupid, Bucky tugs him closer, until Steve loses his balance and careens into a very skewed kiss.

It tastes delicious.

Propping himself on his free hand, Steve presses his forehead to Bucky’s temple, huffs a laugh into his skin, feels Bucky’s cheek stretch in a smile.

“Bucky?”

“Mm.”

“How do you knock over a chandelier?”

“I have faith in you. You’d find a way.”

Steve vouches to do everything in his power to do exactly the opposite.

Won’t be the first time he did what Bucky least expected of him. And look where it got them.

~

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Um. Cooking dinner?”

“Why are you cooking dinner?”

“You said you were tired?”

“Real sweet, Steve, but why is the pan on fire?”

“That’s. You know. French thing?”

“Steve. You can’t just randomly fuck shit up and then call it a ‘French thing.’”

“Works well for the French.”

“I’m ordering pizza. You’re on your own.”

“They have pizza here?”

“It’s the most advanced fucking nation on the planet. Of course they have pizza. With steak and bananas. And you’re not getting it.”

In the end, Steve does get his half of the banana pizza. But not until he swears he will never again go anywhere near the stove unsupervised.

~

With the plush Captains exiled to the floor, they have the entire bed to themselves, and Steve takes the opportunity to stretch himself out until every single muscle in him pops.

“Creaking like an old man, Stevie?” Bucky teases, sliding under the covers and rolling onto Steve to place a sloppy kiss on his forehead. “Very hot.”

“I _am_ an old man,” Steve points out. “I’ve lived a very long life,” he pronounces haughtily and shakes his finger at the air for good measure.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s expression turns thoughtful. “We both did,” he says, rolling further to lie on his back, his right arm brushing against Steve’s left.

Steve props himself up on his elbow, leans down to touch his nose to Bucky’s. It still leaves him light-headed, being able to do that. Kiss the bridge of Bucky’s nose. Brush his lips over Bucky’s cheekbones. Taste the caramel warmth of Bucky’s mouth.

“Why did you never tell me?” Bucky asks, looking up into Steve’s eyes.

Steve’s brain’s a bit foggy, so it takes him a moment to process the question. “Tell you what?”

“Your text.” Bucky winds his hand under Steve, runs his fingers into the hair curling over the base of Steve’s skull. “The long one.”

The words start to sink in.

“You said you didn’t read that one.”

“I got the gist.”

They are already too far in their relationship for Steve to get embarrassed over one chaotically confessional letter, but that doesn’t stop him. He ducks his head, moves to rub his neck, his fingers bump into Bucky’s, clutch at them.

“I don’t know, Buck,” he says, which is stupid and pathetic and horribly true. “God, I don’t know how I couldn’t, but I also don’t know how I could. I mean, talking to girls never worked out for me, and that with all your tips and everything. I didn’t know how to even start talking to a guy. To you.” He brings Bucky’s hand around, holds it tight, kisses his knuckles. Bucky’s eyes are steady on him, big and haunted and sadder than Steve ever wants them to be. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into Bucky’s palm.

“Don’t be,” Bucky says, patting Steve’s beard. “Never told you either, did I?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Ah.” Bucky drops his hand and peers at the ceiling. “‘S a long story, Stevie.”

Is that so. Well then. Swiftly, familiarly, Steve grasps Bucky’s arm, dives under it, settles into its crook, and wraps it around himself, arranging Bucky’s hand over his shoulder.

“Tell me a story, Buck,” he says.

Like you used to. Like when they were kids.

Steve feels Bucky’s arm tighten around him, pressing him closer, deeper into the warmth of Bucky’s chest. This is old, habitual, a memory, a call from their past. Then he feels Bucky shift and bend his neck to place a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. That is new, unprecedented, exhilarating. A glimpse of their future.

“Once uppona time,” Bucky begins, and Steve smiles against his skin, “there was this boy. Just a boy, y’know? Just a regular-ass kid. But smart as a whip. Fine as the devil, too.” 

Was he now. Steve stifles a snicker, starts tracing his fingers up and down the line between Bucky’s pecs, listens as Bucky’s drawl sways between the past and the present, timeless, like the story itself.

“So, one day, he just goes about his lil boy business, and whaddya know? There’s this shrimp of a kid, mouthin’ off at two goddamn jumbo-size bullies. Our boy din’t even know they came that yuge, and that lil shit is swingin’ his weeny fists at ’em like it’s ahrite. So, the boy thinks, _holy Mary_ , and he thinks, _Jesus Christ on a stick,_ and he thinks, _dat’s de bravest mudderfuckin’ punk I’ve seen in my shawht fuckin’ life_ , and he lays into those two arseholes before they beat the kid to a pulp.”

Steve clucks his tongue. “What a foul-mouthed boy,” he laments airily, as his hand slides lower to draw circles across Bucky’s stomach. “Also, not what happened.”

“Shuddup,” Bucky says and slaps Steve’s shoulder lightly. “‘S my story.”

“Of course.” Steve’s hand reaches Bucky’s left hip bone, and his forearm brushes against Bucky’s cock, lolling soft and flaccid in the groove of Bucky’s thigh.

“Hmm,” Bucky says. “So, the kid’s only slightly a pulp, and our boy looks at 'im, and thassit, he knows it’s gonna be _him_ , until the day the boy dies, and prob’ly after that, too.”

“Just like that?” Steve asks, his fingers tracing a zigzag on Bucky’s thigh, lighting on Bucky’s cock, moving past it to rake through the wiry curls at the bottom of his stomach, going back.

“Just like that,” Bucky echoes. “Pow. Zap. Like fuckin’ lightnin’.”

“Why doesn’t he tell him?” Steve cups Bucky’s cock in his hand, runs his thumb over the tip.

“Mmm,” Bucky says, breathes in, breathes out. “See, the kid’s got blood all over his lil face and all over his lil shirt, and that just doesn’t seem like the right fuckin’ time, y’know?”

“I see,” Steve says, and wraps his fingers around the base of Bucky’s cock, begins stroking it, slow and loose, feels it twitch in his hand.

“Hey,” Bucky says, squirming against Steve. “‘S unfair,” he complains. “Kinda hard to reach you with an arm missing.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Steve croons, lets his fingers press harder, hears Bucky’s breath hitch. “Continue the story.”

“Fuckin’ punk,” Bucky mutters, but stops squirming, lifts his hand to stroke Steve’s hair, drops it back on Steve’s shoulder. “So, the boy waits for the right fuckin’ time, but the kid doesn’t make it any fuckin’ easy. He gets his lil nose broken and his lil ribs bruised, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im. He coughs his lil lungs out, and his lil heart jumps straight outta his lil chest, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im. Then his ma gets sick, and his lil fists clench, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im. Then his ma dies, and the boy kinda tells ‘im, but not really, he doesn’t.”

Bucky’s cock is hard and hot in Steve’s hand, and Steve keeps stroking, tilts his head a bit, presses gentle kisses to Bucky’s chest.

“And, _uh_ , the boy doesn’t notice but the kid grows up, and he’s fuckin’ gorgeous, and he talks ‘bout big fuckin’ things, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im. And, _ah_ , and then there’s war, and there's blood, and there’s death, and he’s, God, he’s so tiny, but his eyes are fire, and he’ll burn himself if you let ‘im, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im.“

Steve opens his hand, runs his fingers up and down Bucky’s length, nuzzles his nipple.

“And, _uhh_ , then there’s hell, and the boy thinks he’s done for, but there’s this angel, y’know, who, _ah_ , who looks like the kid, talks like the kid, does stoopid shit like the kid, and he gets the boy out, yes, _uhm_ , he does, but there’s this dame, real great fuckin’ dame, and the boy sees ‘im look, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im.”

Steve’s hand closes around Bucky’s cock again, pumps him earnest and fervid, an apology mixed with a promise.

“Yeah, so, _uh_ , and then there’s more blood, and there’s more death, and the kid’s too busy doin’ his stoopid shit, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im. And then, _ah_ , and then the boy dies, and— _hnng_ ,” Bucky groans as Steve’s grip on him tightens suddenly.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, brushes his lips against Bucky’s skin.

“No, keep,” Bucky says, digging his fingers into Steve’s arm. “‘S okay. ‘S good. So, _uh_ , the boy dies, and he doesn’t, but he’s, _oh_ , he’s dead, and he doesn’t know shit, ‘cept that there’s someone he has to know. And then there’s this lil shit, right— _dammit_ —there, and he’s all pulp, and innit fuckin’ funny that’s how our boy _kn_ -knows it’s _him_?”

If that’s what it took, Steve should’ve just taken Bucky’s metal hand and smashed his face into it right there on the bridge and be done with it. He would’ve, too. Without pausing to think. He twirls his tongue around Bucky’s nipple, closes his mouth over it, pinches it lightly between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, thrusting into Steve’s hand, straining under his lips. “But the boy, he’s, _ah_ , he’s a fuckin’ mess, and the kid’s, the kid’s not much better, so the boy doesn’t tell ‘im.”

“How many times does the boy not tell him?” Steve smiles into Bucky’s chest, drapes his legs around Bucky’s, presses his own cock against Bucky’s thigh.

“Every,” Bucky gasps, “every damn fuckin’ time.”

“But he does tell him?” Steve prompts, and his hand moves faster, Bucky’s hips jerking up and down with it.

“Yes, _fuck_ , he does, when he’s safe, and the kid’s, _agh_ , safe, and they both got, _uhh_ , nothin’ to lose, so he tells him, fuck, Steve, _shitfuckingfuck_...”

“That’s what he tells him?” Steve chuckles. “How romantic.” He clamps his fist around Bucky, sucks hard on Bucky’s nipple, squeezes Bucky’s leg between his.

“You fuckin’— _fuuuck_ ,” Bucky says and erupts in Steve’s hand, shudders under Steve’s mouth, trembles against Steve’s body.

Steve licks it. It’s hot and gooey and bitter, and it’s Bucky, and he can’t get enough. He licks it off his fingers and Bucky’s stomach, wraps his lips around the tip of Bucky’s cock, sucks gently, laps at the slit, doesn’t waste a drop.

“Might be your best story ever,” he says, licking his lips and nestling back into the crook of Bucky’s arm, feeling Bucky’s chest rise and fall under him. “Wait. Is this why your tips never worked?” He cranes his neck, so Bucky can see his frown of massive disappointment.

Bucky laughs, breathy and open-mouthed. It’s a new sound, one Steve hasn’t heard before, not even in the innocent carelessness of childhood or the brazen nonchalance of adolescence. This laugh is different, freer for all the bonds that it breaks, lighter for all the weight that it sheds.

It’s Steve’s new favorite sound in the world.

“Oops,” Bucky says, leaning down to kiss whatever part of Steve he can reach. “Busted.”

Steve tips his face up. “Jerk,” he says.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, and their lips find each other.


	15. The Simple Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is happy and nothing hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endgame? Never heard of her.

Steve meets Wanda at the maglev train station.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks after releasing him from a tight hug.

“Rhino-riding with Sam.” Steve might think about joining them some day, when they run out of stories to share. If that day ever comes. “I’m on grocery duty,” he says, twisting a bit to show the basket strapped to his back in place of the shield. He finds himself quite satisfied with the change.

“Bucky lets you into the kitchen?” Wanda eyes him, too skeptical to his liking.

Gee, Wanda, he only burned that pasta once, let it go already.

“I’m not allowed to cook,” Steve admits, “but I can be trusted to pick groceries, thank you.”

It’s a lie, of course. He has a stack of very detailed notes in Bucky’s handwriting that he ought to present to the vendors. Wanda doesn’t have to know about this.

The market is a noisy motley of people bustling about, haggling, chattering in a mixture of English and Xhosa, flashing their white teeth and colorful holoscreens, insisting that Steve and Wanda come up for a chat, no need to buy anything, but maybe they would consider, here, give it a taste, isn’t this the sweetest tomato you’ve had in your life.

“Best goat cheese in Wakanda,” Steve nods at one of the stalls. “Don’t tell Bucky,” he adds, conspiratorial.

Wanda lingers at a stall covered with bright woolen blankets.

“Nights get chilly at the Palace?” Steve asks, as she rubs a thick dark-blue one between her fingers.

“No,” Wanda says, her eyes flicking to him, then back to the blanket. “But it does get pretty chilly in Scotland.”

“You leaving?”

“Thought I could use a vacation. How much for this one?” She points at a burgundy and gray one, patterned with gold geometric shapes.

The vendor, a stately older lady, studies her sternly. “You that woman,” she says, a statement, not a question.

Wanda blanches but doesn’t flinch.

“Lagos.” The word lands between them like a mine. “My sister, in that building. She died.” Wanda bites her lip, but the vendor continues. “Her wife and their kids, down at the market. They lived.” The vendor smoothes her hand over the blanket that Wanda picked. “You save who you save. We mourn who we mourn.” She picks the blanket up and points a warning finger at Wanda. “Don’t even think about haggling.”

Wanda’s lips tip up, as she folds the blanket into her bag.

They clear Steve’s list, and if they end up buying a few silly trinkets along the way, that was all part of the original plan.

“Things good with the backdoor?” Steve asks, as they make their way through the pastures to his and Bucky’s house.

She shoots him a look, but nods, and her tiny blush is adorable.

They are walking down a dirt road leading to the village, when a tomato rolls out of Steve’s basket. Wanda catches it with a ray of red light, and they hear someone gasp. Turning toward the sound, they see a small kid in a long red shirt looking between Wanda and the flying tomato, wide-eyed.

With a grin, Wanda strikes a pose and flourishes her hands, levitating a few more tomatoes from the basket. As the kid watches, entranced, she starts juggling the vegetables, using both her hands and her powers to make them perform elaborate acrobatic feats in the air. The kid claps in delight. Dropping the tomatoes back into the basket, Wanda executes a theatrical bow, then winks at the kid and puts her finger to her lips. The kid nods eagerly, mimes zipping their lips, and gives Wanda two thumbs-up. They wave at each other, and Wanda and Steve continue walking.

“That was,” Steve fumbles for a word, “charming.”

Wanda tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looks down at her hands. “If I don’t treat it as a weapon,” she says, fans her fingers in the air in front of her, “it’s just like you said. Magic.” She smiles at Steve, a mild placid smile. Steve returns it.

Neither of them can go back, pretend to be ordinary, renounce the power coursing through their bodies. But maybe they can still move forward. On their own terms.

And neither of them has to be alone on the way.

~

Steve and Wanda just finish putting away his groceries, when Steve’s phone pings with a text from Nat.

_got a new lead on that alien tech. you interested?_

Is he. He listens for that voice that has been screaming for action in his head, has been keeping his blood just shy of its boiling point since he was born. In the meantime, his fingers type:

_How time-sensitive?_

Steve Rogers, looking for a way out. Unprecedented. He’s supposed to be ashamed of himself. He isn’t.

_not much._

In that case.

_Pass it to whomever you trust enough._

Whatever Nat has to say to that, Steve thinks he’s ready to stand his ground. He owes it to himself.

_might be the first sane thing I’ve heard from you, Rogers. congrats._

Huh. Was it a test? He doesn’t care. He can’t fight all the fights in the world. Some of them, he can leave to other people.

And if they muck it up, it doesn’t have to be his problem either.

His phone pings again.

_btw, T’Challa says you can do pics now, and you asked what a meme was_

The next message is an image. It’s him, in full Captain America gear, sitting on a chair backwards with his left arm resting on the chair’s back. The image is captioned with _“So, you became a criminal”_ in bold white letters.

Steve decides he doesn’t like memes.

_speaking of pics, hey Rogers top this_

The text is followed by a photo of Nat in pink flannel pajamas sprawled on a giant bed with about a dozen cats in all shades of cute curled around her.

“Wanda, will you step with me outside?”

Now, Nat, you try and top a photo of Steve, wrapped in one of Bucky’s tunics, holding two huge nonplussed goats in his arms, with a tiny white runt perked on his shoulders, chewing diligently on his hair.

~

A tough-looking woman in red and gold flies down to pick Wanda up for her transport to Scotland.

“I have call privileges now, so you can call me,” Steve says, squeezing Wanda’s hands in his. “And don’t forget to check in.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Nat’s already left me a list of instructions.”

“Is it long enough to wrap around you a few times?”

“It’s long enough to turn me into a very instructional mummy.”

Good old Nat.

“Enjoy your vacation, Wanda.”

“You too, Steve.”

Is that what he’s doing. He hasn’t thought about it that way.

He hasn’t given it much thought at all. It just felt so natural, so right. Staying here. Being with Bucky. Doing silly mundane things. Carrying tomatoes on his shoulders instead of the entire world.

Generally, superheroes aren’t supposed to have vacations. But Steve’s already broken so many rules.

~

He is sitting cross-legged on the grass, his gaze wandering over the lake, when Sam and Bucky get back from the rhinos. Bucky rushes off to assure the goats that they’re still his favorites (“after me,” Steve insists; Bucky just pats his cheek). The sky and the water shimmer in the same white-gold sheen on either side of a dark-green line of trees.

“Nat told me she got a lead,” Sam says, after lingering behind Steve’s back for a few minutes.

“I’m not following it.” It’s strange to hear the words in his voice, but they sit right with him.

“Nat told me that, too. T’Challa’s going to leverage it with Ross or something. Politics.” Sam waves his hand vaguely and drops on the grass next to Steve. “So, passing up a chance to be a hero, huh. Did something go wrong or did something go right?”

Very wrong for Captain America, maybe. But who cares about that guy.

“I’m just thinking,” Steve says, leans back on his hands, squints at the sky. “Maybe I should try some of that life Tony’s been telling me to get.”

The simple life. Of a fugitive, with a fugitive, among fugitives, in a strange place, as the world around gears up for whatever it fears may still be coming. Sure, it doesn’t sound easy. But it can still be simple.

“How’s that working out for you?” Sam asks, peering at him.

Steve flops onto his back, puts his arms behind his head, closes his eyes, listens to the bleating and Bucky’s ridiculous goat-talk coming from the direction of the house. Thinks of that new laughter Bucky has, of the way his eyes glow, the way he smiles at Steve, the way he licks his lips when Steve presses his hand to that spot on the small of his back.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

“I’m happy for you,” Sam says, and Steve hears it in his voice. “Truly.”

“Thank you,” Steve tells him, meaning it.

They listen to the little splashes, the swish of the reeds, the occasional birdsong. A frog jumps from the water before them, settles on a floating leaf, starts croaking.

When Sam speaks up again, his tone is light and wicked. “Just one thing, man. Please, please spare me the details.”

Steve grins into the air. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t think I will. You told me to share everything with the team, remember?”

“Well.” Sam chews on his lip. “Didn’t that backfire,” he mutters, stretching on his back next to Steve, no real spite in his voice.

~

“Whacha sketching?” Bucky asks, nudging Steve with his foot.

“A huge-ass crystal fucking chandelier.” Steve puts down his pencil and wraps his hand around the wiggling foot, pinning it in place. “Stop that,” he admonishes.

Bucky’s stretched on the grass, using the spotted furry Steve as a pillow and the plaid-khaki human Steve as a legrest, while the white bratty Steve perches his chin on Bucky’s stomach to glare goat daggers at the human Steve.

The foot wiggles again, and Steve has to catch his sketchbook before it slides off Bucky’s shins. He tries to pull his face into a convincingly sour look, but he’s probably smiling too hard for that.

“Show me?”

Steve lifts the sketchbook and turns it for Bucky to see. His hand is massaging careful circles into the ball of Bucky’s wayward foot.

“Why does it look so grumpy?”

“Have you _seen_ yourself? Yes, that’s the look. Spitting image.”

Pouting lips, puckered eyebrows, eyes like the judgment day. Gorgeous. A work of art.

Bucky’s foot starts trying to poke Steve in the stomach, so Steve digs his fingers into the middle of it, tickling mercilessly.

“Ow!” Bucky squeaks, squirms, bursts into laughter, looks at Steve like the sun got caught in the wrinkles around his eyes and decided to stay there.

Every muscle in Steve’s body hums with joy.

“Stay still,” he says, smoothes his hand over Bucky’s calves in his lap, replaces his sketchbook on them.

Turning the page, he begins working on a sketch of Bucky’s smile juxtaposed with the runty Steve’s glare. He’s finished the outline and moved to cross-hatching Bucky’s beard, when Bucky asks him:

“You heard anything from Stark?” His voice sounds small and painstakingly toneless.

Steve’s hand hesitates over the paper. “He threw the authorities off our tail,” he says, letting his mouth curve a little at one side.

They don’t say anything for a couple of minutes.

“He seems like a good man,” Bucky says at last.

“He is,” Steve says, a truth he never doubted, not even for a second. “He really is.”

When Bucky says nothing, Steve turns to look at him, sees him chewing his lip, eyes cast down, hand motionless on the white runt’s neck.

“Hey,” Steve calls, putting the sketchbook aside and cradling Bucky’s legs in his arms. Bucky looks at him without moving his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky says, scratches the runt behind the ear, looks at the tree behind Steve’s back. “Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry.”

Steve’s heart gives out. He wants to wipe that look off Bucky’s face. Wants to kiss every sad cell in his body, hug every sad thought in his mind, promise him every good thing in the universe and then do his damnedest to deliver. He leans towards Bucky, stretches his hand as far as he can. Catching him move, Bucky turns to him, eyes his hand, then stretches his own until their fingers reach each other and steeple together. The runty Steve bleats in objection. They ignore him.

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Steve says.

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then that’s how it will be.”

That’s how it will be, Steve repeats to himself. Tony will come around or he won’t. Everything will change or nothing will change or some things will change and some won’t. There may be a fight, there may even be a war, or there may be neither. It can be their single moment of peace or it can be just one in a string of countless peaceful days. They may grow old together, they may find out they don’t age together, they may die on one another, they may never die. They may get pardoned, they may get convicted, they may not get found at all.

They’re both teetering, tilted towards each other, precariously, but where their hands meet, they hold each other tight.

One thing Steve knows for sure, one thing that is and will always be. They may be born a thousand times, they may die a thousand times, they may live a thousand lives, and everything may be different, but everything will be exactly the same, as long as there is a Steve Rogers and a Bucky Barnes. They will always find each other. They will always choose each other. Their story is the oldest one in the world, no matter how many times it gets written by how many people in how many ways.

They wrote the original one. They should know.

They are still writing it.

Steve squeezes Bucky’s fingers in his and locks their eyes together.

“I love you,” he says, simple and true, forever.

“I know,” Bucky says, because they’ve only watched that movie God knows how many times. “I love you too.”

It’s the simplest life Steve could ask for. It is also, coincidentally, the only life that he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is, among other things, a love letter — to fandom, to fic writers and fic readers, to each and every one of you, to the love that we all share. Don’t ever stop. Stay in love. Keep loving. Be your brave, beautiful, perfect selves.
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope you enjoyed the ride.
> 
> Until we meet again.
> 
> Love,  
> Meta

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is retweetable [here](https://twitter.com/need_more_meta/status/1321154849350782978) and rebloggable [here](https://need-more-meta.tumblr.com/post/635693286985777152/when-the-line-connects-harkbananas)! <3


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